Tuesday poem
it is written that we should all write, somehow
wood, wood, wood, wood
you see the piles like small nordic mountains
in the country houses
manors built those times ago
and you watch a bird form a parabola
with the others, geese, maybe, flightingÂ
south: think of that, all the earth they see
clouds going a-scud scud scud scud
echoing the thud a-thud thud
of wood breaking and splintering
in the amber dawns you and i
will never view, the white light
of new-day rising, waiting,
lurking