Goats in the Field
From stubble ﬁelds in autumn, you goats
are lights of late allure that ﬂoat
in mist. You fade as night comes on.
You’re lost in whiteness and are gone.
When you bow down to the sun’s redness,
the killing stone, in readiness;
when you look at the Burning Bush’s ﬂare
below the abandoned thoroughfare;
when a mild breeze through haulm can gash
a gold vermillion out of ash;
when sadness grows, by flames bereft;
when not a drop of cordial’s left
as the rowan’s bitter, the rosehip dry.
- Date June 23, 2015
- Tags Goats in the Field