Sport 35: Winter 2007
Out of the dark
Always tomorrow, and after that
The next day—and the dawn comes
Up a blank behind the pine trees,
And patches them into the ridge line,
Adds in the scrub, the yellow of gorse,
The slope of the gully, and finishes.
The same high climb of farmland
Flames at its limit just before dark,
And then it is night, dissolving
The pines on the ridge, uprooting
The gorse, pitching all into black.
I read by a light, sink under covers.
And sleeping is motion. A rustling
Of the undergrowth, a fling out
On the air, a digging for sustenance,
A prowl at the fence line—where
Morning discloses a still, spread-eagled
Hedgehog afloat in the horse trough.
Little creature. I spade it out of the water
In a splash of sunlight, in ripples
Repeating those of its dying, when
Drive or adventure brought it this end.
I dig a grave in the shade. The soil is dark.
I too search for answers at night.