Surrey farmland passes the windows,
the original garden slated
for new housing, while commuters nod
in September sunshine and highway
knows it will end at the sea. Hawk sleeps
on a fence post, web salvers glisten
in the stubble, the golf course swallows
the stone-built farm, and I’ve just woken,
heart high in the gut the way we ride
this bus through it all. Because it yields.
At Ladner Exchange women run dogs
on the old trap circuit. Indian
summer is full of blessings, honest
blessings a hair’s-breadth from here. Did I
note the source? A man in a red shirt
is racing toward golden trees, so
I open my pack, unfold blue-lined
foolscap, not sure why this view of fields,
these lines, over and over, while waves
crack pebbles south side of the causeway
and a spooked blue heron plays jaw harp:
When the well is deep the rope is long.
A fierce day at the mountain retreat.
One thing finishes; one thing begins.
Energy under unseen beauty.
Lightness calls up lightness. Frail bucket,
empty; vital fish beyond the earth.