in memory of Raymond Potter
When you left
the house, where many were your guest,
on your last morning
I hope you stopped
on top of your steep steps
to take it in,
the bright field on the slopes
of the hill and the blue lift over the rooftops.
It isn’t the ground we yield
that has us run away wild
through green fields
nor crows that sweep through the turned
sky over rivers as the crust
of the sun rusts on mild
estates and suburbs at dusk.
But how their image will burn.
Though nothing remains, still
that morning is where we might seek you.
A breeze blows in off the lough’s blue.
A house sparrow flies into the cloud
as if on a mission.
Up steep steps, the slope of the shining hill,
would we find a note on the door:
Gone fishing!