Paul Mills
Fall
The wind is the rider on the hill
Breaking the cloud with his spear
Calling the blue of winter
As he called to summer.
Patched land, patched cloud, blue
Recovering. We remember how heat
Descended, a flight of geese,
Pressure above, then hiss
Of roused water, reclaimed
Wings folded on the reclaimed.
Now on the lake a skin of ice
And silence among the pebbles,
The cloud withdrawn to a gleam
At the back of the sky. We listen
To the wind working on its cliff
And a star listens, around it only
The pure blue of winter, as if the air
Gathered into voice, and then a thresh
Above us, skimming the pine-tops, gold
In the flood of the sun, vast ice-
Breakers now as they glide down
But the rider on the hill, the dark rider
Does not stop at the noise
Of the breaking of the waters.
Page(s) 11
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