A first grasp at land
suddenly found, in his way
he discovers a continent,
steps off to the prairie.
Fall comes, the wild goose
has raised its accustomed cry.
Winter approaches, the white zero
of afterwards, oh of boredom,
having seen it all, the sun
gone down on the world.
And too much yet to be said,
surprise land of river reeds
shaking in light, desert cries
strange and ancient, gaze
of the word for which all else
is afterthought, the mouth’s
daft shape. And where is
that lawing and that song
I sang, crossing the mine waste:
pitted clay, runnels, weeds
dry and isolate, sun-split stones
of the slit hill, remember
this glazed land of the future
laid open and left by our going.
And if none may survive
we should speak our farewells
in this place. For this I turn
saying adieu to each leaf-sound,
finding the grass living again,
the red rose and the lily flower.