ISSN 1758-6488
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Continual Visit Poetry |
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Who owns this land, these trees, these birds
pouring through the morning? I’ve come here
emptyhanded to harvest the wind on my face
the secrecies of place. Star-gathering, lake-stalking
pilgrim head plugged in to draw the powers
out of what my leisure falls on
as tractors roar, lights come on in the yards
and machinery shreds the dark. Cattle
thunder past, a sheepdog barks
from the back of a jeep and a two-stroke engine
puts manners on the hedgerows. The whole
powered world is roaring its purpose
where silently I stand and focus my lens
on the bookish meadow with its subplot of swans.
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