Dark and low clouds outside
and the shuffling of leaves on leaves,
from the oak, rusty hue, dusty orange.
I’m in bed, shutters closed,
I am awake, I know it’s early
and I lie in the wake of my having been
early for ages, waiting for whatever
bides its time.
Dark and still, I sense the low clouds
in the absence of wind.
The countryside and its stare,
the scattering and gazing of here into there,
maybe I began as a digressing child
giving a face to the countryside,
eyes breathing, seeping into skin,
earth in its damp progressing within
and eyes crediting marvels, unseen,
loving the familiar unknown, within.
Now I am hearing a sound that’s almost a sting,
but it’s soon clear it is a close chirping
like tatted lace in the shutter
indulging in the fabric of its own matter.
The dark filling with fingers of light,
the chirping like an audible smile,
even now, on the year’s decline:
I can’t but believe in what begins.