by Glenn McPherson

As swamp grass bristles on the northern edge,
Bending, beaten by wind in the last hours
Of September, I put aside Frankl,
Getting no further than the inside cover
Which offers old photographs roughly
The same colour.

It could be every bird banished
To the Nike curved sandbar, each for the briefest
Moment remembering its lover, except the eagle
Which, before its shadow, all flee.
It should be no surprise that they feel
Some malevolence approaching and lose faith.

On this visit, the mouth to the ocean
Is closed and now the wind’s died the lake
Becomes polarised. We have a choice
According to the one fisherman fishing
Beside the single-lane bridge which is
Little more than solidified smoke

Even though, I bet he knows how many
Stingrays manoeuvre beneath clouds,
Beneath mountains, beneath the trembling lights
Of a crossing car, breathing out of alien slits,
And if like the underlying mythological principle,
The end is the beginning, then eternity
Belongs here as much as anywhere.

For many millennia the cows inside
The window move closer. The table, set
For dinner. A candle lit.