Charles Boyle
On the Lawn, 1914
Their meals were huge. They lie
bemused, like fishes in a tank,
and all the century is theirs.
The flowers are tamed, the grass
cut close beneath them; and sunstroke
is the fever and the only cure
is love. Now time is stilled, no
shadows touch their bodies, and here
they’ll talk, read books, and flirt
with cousins until their names
at last are called. The lawn
slopes softly to a moving stream.
Through sixty years the sunlight cools,
the lines must blur. What drives
the backward glance is not my losses
but their own belief: who rise,
take fire, then jerk to focus
on the black and curling wire.
Page(s) 26
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