The first of many days of Lent,
A walk of indecisive hopes
That fall and flutter, telescopes
Can pick out figures where time went.
One moment I have heart to dream,
Then crush it, sentencing my step
To be man’s mark on barren steppe,
And lose my sight of what I seem.
The promise of another task,
The light of distant island shore,
A flock of child-like bird adore
And ask the questions children ask;
Why does the sea lap up the rock?
The shapes the cliffs make, do they change?
If I walk west, where will I range,
And when return? Who times the clock?
The desperate, half-mocked chance to care –
I didn’t really let the card
Imprinted with a kiss regard
My face’s puzzlement – just there –
I stood it on a shelf as if
I understood its sending, sent,
I understood all that she meant
Because I’ve fathomed motive’s glyph.
All characters are now to me
Like people populaced in books,
Their eyes give wary or vacant looks,
They seek to conquer, or to be free.
Reducing all my colleagues, friends,
And new acquaintances to parts
I vastly undervalue hearts
And so my hope in people ends.
Up jumps a hope, and then it drops,
And day by day or eve by eve
I wipe my tears on my sleeve
And harvest sadness with these crops.
I know too much, yes that I know
And would be glad, surrendering
The rush of teaching’s rendering
Of people, for the chance to go
And live for nothing else but this,
Grass and sand and seagulls’ cries,
Peatsmoke stinging bleary eyes,
Words that heal with their kiss.