I fought out of hollows
by neat farms, by cock
and bull, waters quick
as gin and gulping down
the green slant of time,
and paused, stinging wet
in uplands of long grass,
by a few tombs like thin
crackers beaten with wind
or resurrected souls
with the last day past,
and sneered down at those
worn by grit to the bone,
grudged them their ease.
But out of the burlap air
they gathered as they were,
with curses nice as lead,
strides that cowed hills,
and red, chopping brawn.
I squatted near the tombs
nameless like great art,
and I was lost for words
and time, and fell apart
in a chaos of green heat.

Last Modified 28 May 2007
© David Lyttle 1959, 2007