Swimming. It’s best in the evening.
Best when the fish rise from the depths.

Once he knew how, it was easy, like swimming.
He took words like ‘mother’ and ‘shadow’ and ‘linen’,
wrote long lines of memory and sorrow and silence,
of violins, young wives (her arms, her white thighs),
of roosters and oxen and stairwells and dresses,
of prisons and black earth and salt-frost and bread,
and far, far away in the depths of the forest
the faint fading hum of Persephone’s bees.

Swimming. It’s best in the evening.
Best when the day’s past, all’s lost,
                                                              only night lies ahead.