David McCann
Late Spring
I am lying on the short grass.
No plastic cushion tucks between
My head, the back of it, and ground.
My arms are stretched out, with the right
Palm up, the left palm down, as if
I wanted to receive, bestow.
Through my stillness I begin to
Feel the turning of the planet.
For a minute the sun withdraws
Its warmth, and I an only then
Conscious of a current of air,
Hardly enough to call a breeze,
Breathing into the afternoon.
Soon a beam from the sun again
Touches my face, and rapidly
The heat ripples over my skin.
I am flying on the sharp grass.
No threadbare rug spreads under me
Because of damp, because of green.
My legs are straight out, with a sense
Of freedom that it takes no more
Than naked feet to bring about.
Silence gathers in my body
Like the whirling of a dervish.
An open, wingless country and
An idle, songless day predict
The slow descent towards those depths
Of summer when a search for wind
And water permeates the hours.
The inundated light appears
Stagnant as well as fathomless,
Above the undulating moor.
Spring is dying in the young grass.
No other season cadences
So keenly - like a lover’s groans.
And even if the time ahead
Is good and gold and clear and blue
It will not mitigate the loss.
Sitting in the shade detaches
You from quiet revolution.
Page(s) 140
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