Haunters from the past, They crack and splinter, Burst like pinewood in campfires lit by a child Whose parent, drinking in the dark, Stares in anguish from the trees. At the sound a gate swings open Toward the sun and beyond the guards The emerald fields reach to The grassy hills, the blue lure of distance Calling like doves. Small birds from ragged sedge rise Under the sky, endless and empty, Himalayas of space, white wine. Intrusive as sugar, wine, touch. Somewhere from the heights a voice Pale with distance, faint as eagle's cry, A voice in my direction- Familiar as home but in a language I don't know, Intimate, comes in a moment brief as bluets On the landscape of years, speaks my name From another gone time That my memory, dark as prunes, will not unfold.
Walls press in, ceiling sinks, doors Close with reports like storms grumbling.