The Grange
There are people down by the gates, eating each other's talk. So what have they to do with me, counting the bites I've taken from an apple? I'd have gone by now and should have taken the top way through the fields. I'll wait on though, under a tree, till the lights flicker in the Grange — I'll wait on with a book across my knees I never intend reading. But who'll explain why the road from here is so long? They won't know, standing by the gates, and whatever I'm waiting for, I can't say if it's real. When the plump sun is pressed into the ground, squeezing itself along the horizon, I will turn to it, at least for a while, leaving a day to which I should have given some- thing different. And those by the gates, they'll no doubt forget this time and won't care who I was, watching.
Ian Caws
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