The sky— filled with separate suns—
Became the name of God.
The ground— on trembling scales— unfolding—
Raised our arms unconsciously!

The evenings rang true at a time when we would engage in snooker or chess in the lounge, late into the night, waiting for daybreak to shine through.

On the weekends we would gather and watch the cricket begin: shirts versus skins on Emerald Green. Men versus women. The mens’ ******* seemed to ripple in the weekend air.

Mid-morning was reserved for artistic endeavours— honing our artistic sensibilities: a decidely symbolistic manner of preparition in which we would prepare. We would recite lines and manifest Shakespeare there, at the cusp of Emerald Green.

A sporting life—
For the bloodsport—
We enjoyed sharpening our knives and loading our guns on the languid savannah plains.

For the thrill of the hunt—
The bloodsport—
Our sweat would drip onto the carcasses,
Mixing with the open veins.

We enjoyed the ****,
Displaying the beasts' heads as we covered ourselves in their blood,
Congregating for the love of the open veins.

******* preserved the bones,
And these hunts lived long in our memories as symbols of our glory;
Symbols of the beasts' pain.

The shadow of a shadow of a man,
Receding,
As Time clasps its withering wrist,
Becomes the shadow of a shadow of a shadow's denizen hand,
Knocking on Death's door, between the separate strands.

Resurrection. Abundance.
Find us in the shadow lands,
Next to the writhing smokestacks and the vegetable sand.

632

The Brain—is wider than the Sky—
For—put them side by side—
The one the other will contain
With ease—and You—beside—

The Brain is deeper than the sea—
For—hold them—Blue to Blue—
The one the other will absorb—
As Sponges—Buckets—do—

The Brain is just the weight of God—
For—Heft them—Pound for Pound—
And they will differ—if they do—
As Syllable from Sound—

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

I have wrapped the coast of Miston, walking from The Haunted Plains to the old church, Once More, once again, never stopping, except for a cool drink and the gentle repose of shade.

I have walked a pale road towards Golgotha, where our Lord, our saviour, Jesus Christ, was crowned with thorns and lofted in pain.

I have walked into old Seabridge town, all the way to where the water runs and where the snow rests on frozen days.

However, there are still many souls to be found in these towns, if only— and I pray— my feet stay supple and take the strain of my long, wandering days.