Are not lost (David Wagoner)
Go outside, last thing.
Sit, still, on the back step.
Smoke for five lonely minutes.
Hush your incessant chatter.
Listen to the silence of the night.
Wait - for the garden to appear.
Negative spaces in the sky
- edges fogged -
whisper by moonlight.
Mantilla style lace.
The world crackles, settles, sighs.
A snail halts - barely
stirring a long neck at the refuse.
Dark earth, solitary pebble.
The undergrowth bristles, irritates, harries.
A pale cat has cleared a murky path.
Ink stained stubble, stones.
Fletched silvered spines. A hedgehog’s shadow
shifts over the rise of the lawn.
The scent of consolation rustles
out of a no longer black heaven.
Rinsed by glistening rainfall,
nostalgia hoists itself up.
© Sophia Roberts August 2011
All rights reserved
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