cemeteries worn
delicately fall on chests

like grandmother's old necklaces

and inscriptions from headstones
draped in cold bronze

bought and sold, their epitaphs

like grandmother's old word

her lovely verbs

swathed in gold,

and ever were costly rhinestones weaved in

until every meaning to her lovely words were lost.

When smoke stood up from Ludlow,
And mist blew off from Teme,
And blithe afield to ploughing
Against the morning beam
I strode beside my team,

The blackbird in the coppice
Looked out to see me stride,
And hearkened as I whistled
The trampling team beside,
And fluted and replied:

"Lie down, lie down, young yeoman;
What use to rise and rise?
Rise man a thousand mornings
Yet down at last he lies,
And then the man is wise."

I heard the tune he sang me,
And spied his yellow bill;
I picked a stone and aimed it
And threw it with a will:
Then the bird was still.

Then my soul within me
Took up the blackbird's strain,
And still beside the horses
Along the dewy lane
It sang the song again:

"Lie down, lie down, young yeoman;
The sun moves always west;
The road one treads to labour
Will lead one home to rest,
And that will be the best."

I remember this time of the day
In the front yard where it's almost dusk
Swarms of mosquitoes buzzing in
We need to close the windows hurriedly
Or else they'll prey on us tonight

Then Nanay, with her broom without a stick
Will burn the dry leaves on the ground
Which she gathered together with
Abandoned paper planes and plastic kites
As the sun slowly disappears from our sight