Maintenance 

Each Year I Do the Fence

Hour after long hour; creosote,

brush, repetitive movement

along the horizontal length

of it, then up and down

the planted vertical

that keeps it standing,

interstices of sky and earth and time:

preserving the planks,

stopping the posts from rotting,

keeping the space intact.

I like to step back occasionally, count

the sections done and those still

to be done, all the time knowing

that when it is finished

it will need done again.

Eventually there’s no finesse to it,

no artistry except persistence

and what each year brings

cannot all be mended, there’s

algae, splitting, looseness -

I tie back my hair and get on.

Solitude

It’s hard to get used to the shape.

I have become clumsy, accident prone,

missing the last step, banging

my shins, knocking things over,

as if the edge between me and the physical

has blurred a little, become more tentative,

as if I’m no longer sure where the world ends

and I on my own begin, upright and solitary.

                          *

So many headstones worn to nubs in the long grass,

no memories left, only the ghost shape of a passing,

almost nothing; it is very peaceful amongst the long-dead,

no one grieves for them, their names are on no one’s lips.

                          *

The stone breathes so slowly

and the birds sing so softly

and the sea is so far below

                          *

The gust that comes sudden over the hill

would take the legs from under you, like a Pooka,

it would take you on its back to the edges of cliffs,

scare the wits from you, before leaving you down

where you started from, unharmed, but different.

                          *

When I see a horse rise from the sea and come ashore,

moonlight flowing over its flanks like water, I will be ready

to throw a handful of earth at it so it will stay with me.