Here on Saturday evening, nothing but a dark tiredness in my soul, nothing but a blanket on my eyes or the two Greek coins, nothing but a seagull going past the narrow window of the stone, nothing but an earth that has gone to waste on us and left me with this tiredness.
For the soul needs blossom as the potato does, the soul needs a thistle woven in peace and turmoil, it needs renewing and restlessness, it needs more than the graves that I see at that stone church with those long narrow windows, with the steeple that is rising to an empty sky that is in pieces with black heavy slow clouds, the rainy bare sky of sheep, sky of cows, sky of that weariness, sky of the moon as she rises from the poor broken bodies of the heavens, a broken woman in her nightgown seeking a world that has gone astray on her.