And when the sky had done crying,
A golden haze settled...
Like a moth kissing flame.
Like nostalgia in the old,
And regret in the middle-aged,
Or guilt throughout...

Like vertigo in the young...
The smells of wet grass,
Tarmac cooling;
The sound of a radio,
Whispering, on-air...

A restedness of weary limbs,
The golden haze shimmering
And fading,
Into a night
Raucous with crickets
And cicadas...

A raindrop creeps over the
Convex of a leaf,
Lingers indecisively,
And plunges
To its pockmark-grave
In the soil...

Loamy aromas
Creep up to meet the
West-washed dark...

In the morning,
We know,

There will be mushrooms...!

Copyright © 1985 by Trevor French

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