As my calloused hands pry into the past With each thrust. Later, listening to the wind bumping in the chimneys, Going over all the broken sacraments I wonder what sagas Lit their lives like the bright moon tonight, What runes are to be read on the Old stones at the foot of my field. Straying into the shade of fallen walls, Out of the dragonish sun that rises Dust storms. This is a heat that chars peasants Into the husks of men. It sands throats, Dries up tongues.
Heat is parochial.
Seldomly a tractor wheezing by on Dust-encrusted wheels Tears at the stillness. Then more dust settles over the straggling bushes Rouging it by the one road out of town Where a farmhand blackened and Skewered by the sun Dreams on his mattock. There is a horseshoe of standing water Struck in the rock. Near the summit, A place of cool olives, The bedrock feels warm. Here the sun is an Old master, an ingot of fire, And I cannot recall a word that winter said Threading down into farmland, Watching egrets whiter than grace Glide over the marsh grass.