Wednesday, December 28, 2016

Arriving, a poem


Crumbling asphalt gave way
to lime-rock further from town
and every fencepost stood
sentinel. I could not
tell you what sort of cattle
watched disinterestedly;
Santa Gertrudis I can recognize,
and Brahma, but not those
square dun grazers.
The house is up ahead,
you told me. I could see
the sun on the tin roof,
or was that a barn?
Surely there was a barn.
Tired giants sprawled
into the yard, resting
fern-clad arms before
the porches. You waited there,
as sere fields all around
awaited rain. And I? I am
always arriving, always
leaving, already gone.
I see you waving, on the porch.
There will be lemonade.

Stephen Brooke ©2016

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