On a warm day when even children laze
there is a haze, some motes of waste between
the daystar and its devotees; but moreover
a lessening of light, a waking to a fading,
to finding we are short one source.
The walker in trees and amongst fungi
has taken over our sleeping and is completed,
the earth we stumble on is less brave,
our air emptier of songs, weighed
down by sudden epitaphs.
We are poor.
Tomorrow it’ll rain and I’ll be braver,
there’ll be work to shirk and I’ll do so
with a grin as broad as a gun-butt;
there’ll be the door to open, the way
to step through, the swinging stride to make,
and I’ll take the pace, I promise. Please
let me stay one more warm daytime first
and thirst for you, for your words,
for your mood, your breathing,
for one more wisdom now the subject
of speculation; let me make one fast
before the liberation feast, I swear
I’ll eat again, big sister, I’ll eat.