CLOUD STREAM FOG MORNING
from car ahead.
She knew me, then. Do I?
Who hangs here locked away behind
saw pain, chilled rain,
last waves, your laughed-at plans;
yet never looked with any sense
Men's eyes look down;
hands tend to bending rods.
Cloud Stream hides golden fish as old
dire sounds (soft, dead)
in dense fog near my head:
youth dreams that toll away? My screams?
tiny North town:
small houses ride big farms
across polders diked safe beneath
bikes into wind:
black flat fields dream they're still beneath
silent from here:
twenty metres due South
and ten below where she now hangs
near blue today,
and grey, soft-edged; as Spring
takes wing, kisses wet-colours land
sun through cloud-breaks:
mother sheep show black new lambs
old paths up dikes to freshest grass.
THE PATH, 1
on walk, fresh spread
for summer's tourist surge,
await, as for a million years,
and grab and push
always for new. Plump trash-
family children in last year's
first in our plans;
we moved from place to place
to end atop the pyramid.
pop hot and fresh:
full tubs of froth and salt
in splendid form, tasty and warm
THE PATH, 2
you seen the cat
consume or ferret take?
What slaking gifts hung by the shrike,
in grass. The asteroid
that will obliterate our reign
Attend that Roach
who waits, wrapped in black wings,
to dog our doom. You think he waits
requires more time.
He'll bide, while mammals teem
this earth and steam our place with their
It'll course in veins, emend
to humans' time: they'll chime
the knell for all they've left to board
from reddest eyes
of Earth's unknown true god,
the Roach, will call in friendly fire,
Copyright © Alan Reynolds, 1996.
Alan Reynolds: email address in Monnickendam, The Netherlands.
Visit Alan Reynold's Web page .
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