East Devon Beacon
by Michael R. Burch
Evening darkens upon the moors,
Forgiveness—a hairless thing
skirting the headlamps, fugitive.
Why have we come,
traversing the long miles
and extremities of solitude,
worriedly crisscrossing the wrong maps
obtained from passing strangers?
Why do we sit,
love's long-forgotten signal points
with cramping, ink-stained fingers?
Why the preemptive frowns,
the litigious silences,
when only yesterday we watched
as, out of an autumn sky this vast,
over an orchard or an onion field,
wild Vs of distressed geese
sped across the moon's face,
the sound of their panicked wings
like our alarmed hearts
pounding in unison?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem