The Vanished Sunlight Of The Stream Poem by Robert Rorabeck

There is nothing to it- the minnows are
Shut up and whisperless in the vanished sunlight
Of the stream,
The words for her are curled up or boxed
Up like legionnaires and maps in the attic-
For her one brown man has returned to her,
She has brought him down again,
And they exchange their little fires in their bed,
While the same da#ned world seems to wake up
For the both of us- Now the streets are
Echoing differently, as the same raindrops from
Different thundershowers roll down her
Shoulderblades- and she works in the market,
The airplanes touching down blessing over her-
But the tadpoles no longer metamorphosis in
The slow shadows,
Even as her children come home every day
From school to her, growing strangely
Even as she remains the same.