Changing Ground
I
have spoken to no one for days
but
the small bird with the black band
of
neck as it bobs its way in front of me,
feigns
nesting in the torc of wrack in the sand
and
a man in a scrapie wool jumper
picks
broken teeth from the strand;
if
he opens the black cavern of his mouth
and
utters three, two, even one word
I’ll
be gone with him.
The
day comes when you can no longer
squeeze
into the old coat of yourself.
Slievemore
stays where it is,
has
never moved its whole old life
but
waits for the farmers to shift
their
animals up and down with the seasons.
My
bones know change the way birds know sky,
the
way they let go of the light over the deserted village
the
way the grass knows it, bitten down to the quick.
From Urgency of Stars ( Arlen House, 2010)
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