Ian Caws
Improvisation
Leaves bounce on their edges across the road:
It must be winter or the world ending.
And what they sought they are now past finding,
The people who put the book down, unread.
In those who walk home, lifetimes in each stride,
The cold prods a doubt in understanding
Unlike the crows, who need no reminding
Of dark skies or the last fears of the dead.
And I, with musicians from the old time,
Play improvised music round a log fire,
Finding every opportunity
To leave tunes, as if the notes might blossom
Into summer trees or even pilfer
From death’s archive its quiet certainty.
Page(s) 5
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