Poem
John F. Deane
Late in the Season
Late in the Season
Late in the Season
The first dense fog this morning, everythingindistinct. Small birds
flitting among stones at the waves’ edge; last night
along laneways and in the meadows,
heavy tractors laboured on, their headlights flaring;
among the sand dunes rabbits
played with cloudshadows from the moon; now a fox
in her potched, gold-chestnut fur
scents out her lost escape-ways through the lopped-down grass;
I have been picturing
a straight and solitary figure pacing the roads and shoreline
as if washed up onto the world
like jetsam flung by the breaking reach of the waves,
who has words to offer, words
in an antique language beautiful as moonlight and sharp
as the teeth of the mowers,
while the world feels for him, offering
unwanted coin.
© 2012, John F. Deane
Publisher: First published on PIW,
Publisher: First published on PIW,
Poems
Poems of John F. Deane
Close
Late in the Season
The first dense fog this morning, everythingindistinct. Small birds
flitting among stones at the waves’ edge; last night
along laneways and in the meadows,
heavy tractors laboured on, their headlights flaring;
among the sand dunes rabbits
played with cloudshadows from the moon; now a fox
in her potched, gold-chestnut fur
scents out her lost escape-ways through the lopped-down grass;
I have been picturing
a straight and solitary figure pacing the roads and shoreline
as if washed up onto the world
like jetsam flung by the breaking reach of the waves,
who has words to offer, words
in an antique language beautiful as moonlight and sharp
as the teeth of the mowers,
while the world feels for him, offering
unwanted coin.
Late in the Season
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