Upon a mountain-top, around a glow-worm
Undisturbed in silt, by a frame, an ill-fitted bridge and a buzz of danger.
The wood does not fit the door, the sound flits about there, incapable of entry.
For if there are any others and I any other, then it be so.
At sundown, when dogs start and some-one comes ambling up the road, and
down, and beyond the eye-line of the curve.
Because in thickening it blisters, in the bygone still makes a yell of hurt
—that would not be quelled—even forcibly.
And the road is evening and so are birds, so do they travel—and arrive at
eating gnats—so do they fall, at sudden increments from that stand
If gunpowder in the distance, if hammer, if laughter, if anvil.
If again, a lost tiding and a knobbed head, for dealing, and lo!
Veins of living fire run down turning leaf and dusky mirror and waiting may
be had in the glen—I can wait longer.¹
¹ Having not yet settled upon it, or known the land, or taken up the lease. The noises not quieted, just differing—
in the swamp hours, and a low shot or two up from below—and meaning it and having many pages to fill and
wanting at least one or two sorts of compensation, of clarity, of succor, and of a sweetness.