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N. S. Willey

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1.

This is a Summer’s day, the heat
In halting haze; this is always.
These are the great arbitrations
Of Summer, and this the late light
That is called ‘magisterial’.
Moments are ‘bridal’; one by one
They pass before us and are gone
To memory, where shadows share
An insubstantial Summer street
Remembered, like remembering
The candle feeding on the air,
As if beneath a certain page
A biscuit-tin became a room
With shining walls.

This is the lullaby, dark lines
Of rain on fields of sleep, the mines
Of meaning empty, men gone home,
The tumbling sound of bonfire smoke
In ebbing light. Dim path almost
Of emanation seems to stir
From rooms of grass where once you were
My one true friend, now given back,
Dark water lapping metal post
Miles out from land. It is as if
The words wear out. The missing words
In spectral syllables cohere
Beyond my reach. It is as if
I know that you are now not here.

 

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