Under a White Sky
The muffled cry
of a cat
at the doorstep
The ticking
of a clock
I walk slowly across
the white meadow
Glancing behind me
there is an impression
of a spill
of yellow light
from hills, perhaps
vague
in the fading distance
My feet
are terribly cold
I ran out
into the snow
barefoot, once
shouting child
pleased
with his own audacity
Looking, later
properly booted
at the naked prints
I wanted to laugh
but the sight
was unsettling somehow
stilling the humor
as, nearby
cardinals and crows
flitted and moved
in the heavy branches
of trees
that bordered the yard
Under the white sky
the pines
are much taller
than I had thought
thick
with small
sharp-edged needles
It was hard
to find a seam
where I could enter in
The muffled cry
of a cat
at the doorstep
The ticking
of a clock
I walk slowly across
the white meadow
Glancing behind me
there is an impression
of a spill
of yellow light
from hills, perhaps
vague
in the fading distance
My feet
are terribly cold
I ran out
into the snow
barefoot, once
shouting child
pleased
with his own audacity
Looking, later
properly booted
at the naked prints
I wanted to laugh
but the sight
was unsettling somehow
stilling the humor
as, nearby
cardinals and crows
flitted and moved
in the heavy branches
of trees
that bordered the yard
Under the white sky
the pines
are much taller
than I had thought
thick
with small
sharp-edged needles
It was hard
to find a seam
where I could enter in
crawling, until
near the center
I could stand again
The deep chill scent
of resins hardened
graced with water
crystallized and still
She is no longer there
and I feel a moment
of sick disappointment
and loneliness
But it's all right, really
Past a certain point
it doesn't matter
Perhaps she lay
with her lover, here
and the ground
will still remember
Lying down
on the frozen carpet
looking up
through the branches
it will hurt for a while
and then
there will be a warmth
that will have
nothing to do
with life's renewal
How high
the tree crowns arch up
Not a cathedral
just a library
with all the words
gone too simple to read
I remember
there are oranges
in a basket
warming
on the sunlit windowsill
The porch glider
is swaying
(c) 2004 Malcolm Deeley
near the center
I could stand again
The deep chill scent
of resins hardened
graced with water
crystallized and still
She is no longer there
and I feel a moment
of sick disappointment
and loneliness
But it's all right, really
Past a certain point
it doesn't matter
Perhaps she lay
with her lover, here
and the ground
will still remember
Lying down
on the frozen carpet
looking up
through the branches
it will hurt for a while
and then
there will be a warmth
that will have
nothing to do
with life's renewal
How high
the tree crowns arch up
Not a cathedral
just a library
with all the words
gone too simple to read
I remember
there are oranges
in a basket
warming
on the sunlit windowsill
The porch glider
is swaying
(c) 2004 Malcolm Deeley
painting copyright Malcolm Deeley
