Where earth’s outstretched, the chest heaves with pain,
to wake
with a heart-jolt,
having gone to the close of the final lane
to come
through birth again.
Where the branch twists, where the green’s strokes
are uneven,
where waves are blue in sun,
to turn the mortal face and the hand’s shiver
to a rondeau’s circling
tune.
This autumn in the great towns
as bridges rise
gives space.
A boy sweeps leaves in the early morning
from the fountain
base.
