POEMS
Thomas R. Sleigh
ON HOLIDAY
It does not matter that the house is burnt,
All the children scattered, that the grass
Cannot remember their footsteps in the park,
Or that the sun has grown older,
For its time was not theirs, and never was ...
Their shouts and movements in the shadows
Of the palms have ceased to exist beneath this sun.
As
men they may remember their young limbs ' abandon,
But they will never see the sun in its whispering ring,
Whispering encouragement, to desert them in their prime.
It
is not that we deserve to hold to anything,
But are found as on a holiday, on a veranda
In a storm, and watch the wind pitching across the houses
And the decks, the sea-surface heaving, light gibbering
In the clouds. Then, the air is cooled,
Not a word is spoken, the pageant moves without applause
To find its exit on the horizon,
And we are left, still embraced by the wet
And the sudden purple light lifting high above the town.
The lights submerged in the bay, coming on, are the echo
Of the crickets as they surround our every movement
And then fall still. We sit and listen to our host,
Who will talk later each passing night,
Telling us of the coast, and exotic shells.
