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Gerald Solomon Page 2
Memo
Now that we're
coasting away from the sun
Autumn's motors
twirl brown leaves down,
bits and pieces,
daylight's nibbled away.
But still the
persistence
of how (I assume)
I'd arranged.
Time will not tell,
its integrity
present only in
passing by.
What you want
doesn't wait like a
small child at your side,
raising its arms to
be lifted.
Stranger
I reach this Welsh town late in last night's rain,
my Ford's metal
stopped, apart in the silence.
Black streets flare
in orange sodium.
Rows of shut houses,
life gone indoors.
A place turns to
face you like a stranger.
Night as ink-blot
with its glamour of sharp stars.
Steep clouds,
underlit amber skud away
in some lost high
wind where wonder
and utterance have
gone before.
You look up, admire
still, with a question.
Lost for proper
words, prefer a certain caution.
But who today can
write a hymn?
Going
There
I set out in time
but stopped to look
where the road bends
and you see small
mountains far off.
So far off they hint
another path.
Looking, something
new filled my mind,
the way sunlight
goes into water,
touching nothing,
changing everything.
Tell me then I’m
wrong in this:
a kind of happening,
besides chemical
truth,
has no good formula
for need, or trust?
© Copyright, 2012,
Gerald Solomon. |