Woodland
John
Cornwall
Winter,
and the midnight
foxes are sleeping.
Somewhere,
under bracken,
whole lives occur
without
reference
to mine.
I have to imagine
insects and wild
flowers, grasses
as tall
as
me, bending
and bending
in high wind,
vying for the sun's
affections.
Amongst
the
birds and flowers,
the lives of insects
and tall grasses,
I am absurd.
I have nothing
to do
with
anything.
Maybe, one day,
when there
has been, for me,
a final sunset
I might get
to
know this place
properly, its richness
and long
histories passed
to me like a father
to a son,
and
I would hold them gently
away from death and murders,
away from everything
until the time
arrives to listen
to the sound
of
the earth breathing.
The
2River View, 1_3 (Spring 1997)
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