Saskia Hamilton


 

from Night-Jar


From field to hedge to field,
acres of sorrel. Sorrow of the root,

it is true. I prepared myself for inward
testimony. Creatures of the high garden

kept their distance. Last birds,
first moths. Dogs watched

the procession of tractors. What arrives,
departs. It has no children, no lands;

time held in the palm of its hand
is all that is made. My feet took me to

my companion, distracted by the chill,
the damp car seats, old cans of paint,

gas bottles, children, parties, and all
what tills the soil. As if a fit were coming

on, I prepared myself expertly. I said
to the first dog, and then the second,

during that time we multiplied
like fools in Lear, disruptive by way

of nothing more than ordinary non-
human talk, nonsense at dusk,

radiators ticking the appointment
measuring out evenly the hour’s
 
recessional, study of tides,
where the river flowing north joins the sea
 
and crosses my mouth.
 







© 2008 Electronic Poetry Review