circle

circle

a cuckoo
pulses secret
secret in
the fog.
the hill muddied
with cloud.
the standing stones
out of kilter
are steadied
in the earth
up to the hilt
of sense and
over
falling
worked apart
by our vertigo.
the village
wound in against
the long surf
spread too
toward ireland,
toward wales,
the memories
of tongue, weapon,
title, deed,
like scoria
in english gardens.
the village
stands me in
purpose.
in the shallow-lit
pub to drink
away the funeral
storm, enough
said here without
plastic bullets,
plastic explosives.
at the sill
inside our
evening room
unpick the strands
of gull wind-stirred
around the harbour.

you open
your hands
to the sea.

st.ives, cornwall 1988

 

Copyright © 1988 Peter Le Baige. All Rights Reserved