Picardy

The clouds of Ireland gathered over France –
Flights of swallows, blowing hot and cold
In their own force-fields, and the weightless dance
Of insects before rain. Our life on hold
Looked either way. The chairs, the groaning board
Littered with its aftermaths of feasts,
Were dragged indoors. A year or two, a third
Was added, unaccountably, to the lease
Running out on the garden. Fifteen degrees
On the tapped barometer. We had drifted north,
Just sitting there, just talking – cherry trees,
Excuses for summer, used-up earth,
Our one-step-forward-two-steps-back advance
And the clouds of Ireland, gathering over France.

from Secular Eden

By kind permission of the author and Wake Forest Press