James Walton #36 The Fencer and the Sunset: Eight Bars for Broken Strings

The ripped wire is back up uncurled recycled

 twice the effort for half the result

(I hear the scent of you smiling in the fragrant drapery of the orange tree),

but happy doing the right thing

witnessed by how much the disinfectant stings my hands

All those cuts for a little comfort and of course pleasure

in some resurrection of boundary and grass and greedy eating to come

and my own thoughts meandering pulling wire,

moments elliptic in steps and crouching straining to get the line

where diluted end of Autumn sun naps in the company of old dancers

There’s no desecration Sandi your ashes are still here

spread smudged and taken up by so much other life

a blue tongue’s watching almost heedless but still wary,

in its somnolent crocodile wobble of possession to let me know

where the return will be

Out over the decline to a different eco system

in front of what’s left of the hay shed

splattered hills are garnished like a blanket thrown over something,

that should have been picked up first

by an impressionist God impatient in passing

Flung sheets of tin once wall hedge up against the slope

I come on with too much purpose to see

the eagle shakes loose first like a patient escaping a straightjacket,

then wings stretch awkwardly as air unhelpfully holds out the coat

dressed now time bends in clumsy first strokes to lift off

In a Chinese master’s moves of an order too ancient to be named

saplings become bamboo walking steps to the air as one to another

private whispers invoke the parting envelop of change,

sudden majesty takes over and the sky is slipping through gears

without the hesitation of physics

Predicted afternoon showers dawdle

eyelash rains drizzle failure river crays go salty waiting

last rites sing to bend rye,

in the ceaseless head space of dung beetles

going over all that was to be again

Laying down in the soft cashmere pullover of clover

drowsy between the shoulder and breast

of all the day’s murmuring staccato,

remembering how you flew in laughter diving ahead to pick me up in the turn

of a spinning durst of vermillion flamenco