The earth fingers the black mess of itself,
Soaked by last night’s rain,
Choked by the sticks and straws of the recent dead.
The brief hours of the sun are waning,
Tamping shadows into corners.A bowl of chrysanthemums on a window sill
Gives out their invitation-to-Hades smell – They nudge the air with the baby’s thumbs of their leaves.
Autumn is digging a trench
For the dark blood-offering of ourselves.Will the shade of Achilles appear from the bleeding soil?
Will he shake his hand in grief at his gossamer body?
Will he point in despair at the spider sneaking beneath a stone? I stood on the common at nightfall,
The last of the day was a blue rim on horizons,The ice-light of stars had appeared;
But when the tawny owl hooted
And I moved my shoe in surprise,The world turned on its back,
Ignoring us,
Painting black on its black.
It painted black on its black.
A little light and a little heat –
These hug the stone in the dark. I can hear the winds on headlands
Bewailing the white fury of the sea: I can see the brute fist of cloud
Challenging the fallow fields to a duel.When the light begins to fade
Chrysanthemums glow like coals;They nod their many-petalled eyes
And lower their heads to the night.
They struggle on.
Long life and a long life.
I am told they are the flower of lasting.O Achilles, how long is it since your arm swept the air?
Long life and a long life.
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© October 1979
