by Michael Tritto
Sheep and horses in a rolling mist,
the power of oak trees, their remembrance,
“The hand of God is green.”
Lifts of light, its thousands of stories,
each blade of grass making room for sun,
their palms raise toward the sky.
We’re used to laughing, you know.
Old Henry and his quizzical face,
not knowing when he’s not alone,
asking a poor sheep for directions,
“Look, I seen you there many’s a time
you and your curly hair, sipping a pint, ya know”.
Sheep lie on the turf some forty feet
from any other, rainbow marked for sorting out,
and horses draw shadows across the field.
So careful by the window.
No one must know how he waits.
“Such a weak man!” they’d say.
But she said she’d come,
and this sun slant long afternoon
lies empty across the bed.
A corner of a stone house is all there is,
near the broken roof church, its graves
slanting any which way, its horsehead
gargoyle graces a young tree.
She kneels as if there were candles.
She tries not to shake too much.
“Can I put the question a different way?
Is there a once-in-a-while when it’s over?
Would it matter such a quick look,
sky and water, moon and the bridge?”