They knit joy
To terror

North of the seam.
The needle travels

Through the evening sky as they come in beautiful stitches
Along a thread and another thread. The fire is lit.
Memory is at the gate and waves time through.

Truth is met with a firm refusal, and has to stand with Thought,
And other loners, at the end of an irrational queue—
The scientist with his ball bearing, the monk

With his prayer.
The nun in her pew,

All of us trying to re-enter
The receding waters anew.


This was his jawbone.
This was his bed.

Here are his ashes.
Hard now as lead.

The hills sit on an horizon made of clouds. The sea was a fire
That her hand lit. His seeds are pebbles. The head of the black bush rises into the blue.
Her offspring slope up against the sky and walk like camels

Into the inlet. His white skull is a torch under a heap of shale.
The goose looks down on her shadow, the air is cold,
The dog rises off his rock, the moon tide rushes; we down tools;

And go indoors
To light fires and warm our hands round

The leavings of a story
That cannot be told.