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Ian Caws

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The Moat

Rain hung in pines, with a sky losing weight,
and all the ways into his life were closed.
A gazebo, where he could always write,
stood empty with its door ajar, and glazed
water lost his reflection in the moat.

From an orchard, she looked back at the clock,
noting sunlight’s leavings on the tower.
Elsewhere, their dog, shaking himself awake,
sensed her loss as a saint might catch a prayer,
waited for a key to turn in the lock.

But he, she guessed, was on that stretch of road
where the signal went dead and did not call.
And down damp lanes, he took an easy ride,
forgetful of rabbits and each pothole.
Stars in the water startled her then blurred.

Reminded her, tapping boats by the bank,
watching how ripples twisted the dark weed,
there would be time enough for them to think
and salute their emotions on parade.
Idly, she flicked a stone and saw it sink.

Then stretched and closed the white gazebo door
smelled different blossom on Maytime trees,
leaving his scratched out papers on the floor.
Turned to their lit house, felt a sudden breeze,
heard the dog barking on the second stair.

 

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