A Gathering of Stones…

…of mortar and affection
warmed by April sun
a drift of fragrance,
cow’s breath and old hay,
ripe cheese, pale grasses
the lightest scent of blossom
and the lingerance of snow,
and breakfast hearth-smoke…

Distant crows are wheeling, cawing,
coarsely calling admiration
of the new-turned turf,
of turning season,
of turning, turning, turning
in the sky above the oaks…
The human touch of talk
and laughter muted–
It clings, this lacy sound,
to walls and roofs,
and ventures not too far afield.

Dark brown,
the depths of barn and cellar;
grey, the shadow-side
of house and wall.
Night is blue,
bluer at the dark of moon
than any ocean
or deep mountain lake.


1983 Mt Spokane

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