Perhaps it's a little consolation that the village
Lays a carpet of whispers as you are led into
Before settling for the evening
A cock pheasant
Neck deep in night
With mainland morning just a line
On the horizon under a splash of ink sky
Spilt by the arm of waking dreams.
As quietly as a puddle freezes,
Crying as silently as slush.
Ah, how long it seems
From their control tower
the nest of chicks
Guide in their parents
On a runway of cries.
Crows freeze in mid-flight
And hang there
Like fire damaged decorations.
Evening again lays down shadow
Like a cardplayer
With a hopeless hand.
At the bend in the avenue
Until I was nine or ten
I don't remember any other cares
Than getting the lessons done in time
To play a little more before the prayers.
Out fly the fowl
Like feathers from a bolster
And who comes last but the rooster.
Pausing to raise a leg,