The mind would clear,
hungering for valleys
where streams pounded sharp
silver as fish scale
but we would ignore it,
ripping out the ore,
grinding it to make coffee.
I sat all morning in the sticks,
umended walls slumping a
prostrate green, and prayed.
No kingfisher flicked his jewel in answer.
Earth poured into the valley, river closed
soil into its cool digestion.
World eating world
made a sound like rain on reeds.
Moles crawled in the nape of soil,
pondering big mouthfuls.
Creation stood to attention
steaming with dawn, each oak
and deer with its perfect portion.
The honeybee unjealously
brewing a lifetime of sweetness
for the casual bear. And good bear kills
sheep for the hive to hollow.
The world presented itself soft and pliable,
tender, black with innocence.
There is a man shaped hole here, I thought,
or should be, picking up my shovel.