Out walking the hill’s side, the wind here
smashes the saplings, no trees,
no tree cover, nowhere to hide now,
the old stones taken for walls and roadwork.
Above these grey towns, streets I don’t know,
a corner the road goes where trees gathered
that are gone now. So much sky then,
the stars scattered milk, the silence.
I lived beyond this, in my own house,
with a yard and garden, trees, chickens, a pig,
two goats and the white doves, all my days
I made a rough worsted, the same gun metal grey.
Home from the wars I was handsome and workshy,
a green stone on a ring was mine once,
that came from the Nile. Another took it,
thereafter into the ground with him.
I was a good soldier, bright buttons,
bulled webbing and boots, knife crease
in tunic and trews, I was always on parade,
on the march, on manoeuvre, on a drunk, or asleep.
No, I’m not mad. I have this wound, Doctor,
I call Ivan the Terrible, it bleeds when the wind’s
from any direction, winter and summer. It weeps
but I don’t know for what grieving.
What else I recall are tiny white roses
growing in the Basques’ country of the tongue.
And wayside herbs: feverfew, yarrow,
soldier’s wort, all good for something.