fox covert

Back where i was before,
Fox covert,
water emptying itself endlessly
into the blind brick cistern
beneath the brambles
and the lowering hill.
Twelve months have run me
turning, tilting astronomical
upon the solar plane,
riding the wave of time
at terminal velocity
to arrive me
here,
crashing into this moment;
and here i am,
beside the echoing spring’s
restless content,
among the withered half-dead
regiment gathered, hiding
in the lea of the hill.
Here i am,
Janus-sighted, gazing
beyond and behind,
the marks i left still visible,
but ahead?
i cannot even look
yet.
And this?
the curve of my trajectory
is it the arc of the rising,
falling, setting sun?
a golden, shaken leaf born to fall?
Or the circling constellations
always turning
upon the perfect wheel of the year?

I listen to the water

merging the moments
one into the other.
i take its peace
in lieu of answer.

 

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