Then, when only the billowing smell
of the sun in its sack descended,
we used to go into groves to be tickled,
and to carry out extinct arguments.
Our orders were
to ho ld up one day at a time,
like a page to the light-
some with watermarks, some without.
And to find the fallers-faint-as-foolscaps,
if they were there.
If
not, to watch the long slow angles of air
for a fluffy-legged, heart-prodding justice-bird
tearing at the oat-colored space.
It was a kind of grace, in those days,
to hear the grasses wrinkle under live wings,
and to see them straighten again
with decent formality .
RACHEL HADAS
NOSTALG IA
And in the seventh year
to
return
to
the vale of civility.
The time of blue is receding and the time of yellow approaching.
Tall translucent globes of maple light
fringe the gentian drumroll of hill and valley.
Eight deer emerge at teatime, toss their tails,
white flags of truce, retrea t to almost naked trees.
Against a streaked slate sky of messy weather
furl ed leaves are sharp chartreuse. Sleet cutting sun,
compost heap still frozen at the core-
a ll undisturbed by anything but the stately twirl of seasons.
