untitled

*








Still is the muffled dawn, when the light creeps across the frost

Waiting as I —

and I am only this, a kind of lingering pause,

a figure of dismay —

Find the crest of the hill which rises vast.

Cold makes the air a shape I move through,

the bright sky is stretched

broad and luminous as an unfurling thought.

The breath in my scarf is close and damp,

I mean only to stand a while,

til I go on, and down,

down all through the bracken and blackberry cane.


*