(cont.d)If I was a seaman, I could
say: time to wind in the sail.
But, peasant, bird-nesting,
I retire to my hearth
where a fig-trunk flickers
(a toadstool sapped the tree and
one day I felled it for a prayer)...
in my niche remains a heap
of splinters, a twig or two
to stoke the flames so I a-
bide: no cares, just patience.
Above, the shred of a cloud
presumes to veil the sky ─
if I dive into the embers...
The last few flashes, gasps,
eyes of light: lone word.
First and only a poem.
The last.
Escapes me. My heart’s
a knot. With a smile undone.
That word should be sun,
yes, sun and sun...