A Lost Face
To seek a lost or missed face, and not trace it Slides a screen of clear glass across street, grass and vista,
As for a huntsman killing for hunger not fun Leaf and twig cruelly detailed and motionless Seem in the know, conspiratorial, Hiding fawn pelt of beast or grain-fattened bird Dearer by disappearance, needed by the trigger finger, The sharp-eyed stomach, and the children at home.
Seeking to trace the lost face, it seems untrue That the tides of ourselves, in hats, shoes and coats, Ghosts lent substance, precarious hurriers Whom death teases, neglects or surprises,
Should be able to conceal such features as those— But look at the sallows: they shelter a kingfisher.
Hereabouts I know the treasure was buried But the keen spade dredges up,nothing but earth.
It is time to go home—unless suddenly the steel Strikes metal, and vibrates like a tuning-fork.
WILLIAM PLOxER.
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