Thursday, 5 April 2012

Sun-shower, Exeter-bound

Hard of focus now, in time
of plenty, wept as strangers to a damp
and greying greenland, grown with elder
twine: people grasp likewise
upwards, as though the rain to climb,
as Jacob’s ladder, as the oversky
clears and closes again, and hard
of focus again, English women
of the daytime train — or, farmproud,
louts in dripping tractors, or geese
by swollen ponds, more hard a-flapping,
hardness being something every
mudwalker, every railstalker, every
classroom chalker carries somewhere
in being.  Now: focus ye!
Now harden!  All that’s olden,
rich, and soggy: it will downsuck
when you would wander over fields
and under showers.  I tell you, friends,
post telescopes!  Mark your strides!

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