Sunday, September 15, 2013


                               after “ June” by Dermot Healy
Leaving the openness of summer sea.
The borders shattered in the swarming sun.
A narrowing busy light
is now alluring you in its might.
It’s river, purpose, direction.
And you feel drawn
into the rust-like beckoning
of the withering cornstalks,
tall ruins standing and fluttering
on furrows awakening walk,
land back on land
and dust in a straight gust
along the shiny rustle of crows.


Dave King said...

Like this very much, its simplicity allied with truths not always obvious. The final three lines, compelling.

Crafty Green Poet said...

I particularly like:

the rust-like beckoning
of the withering cornstalks