ME TO YOU ~o)
Summer's gone brown, and , with it,
our wanderings in the shires, our ways.
Look at us now.
A shuttered house drips in Moroccan rain.
A mill sits ghostly in the green of France.
Beaches are empty now of all but pebbles.
But still, at crossroads, in seignorial gardens,
we meet, sleep, wrangle, part, meet, part,
making a lodging of the heart.
Now that the sea begins to dull with winter,
and I so far, and you so far
(and home farther than either),
write me a long letter,
as if from home.
Tell me about the snowfalls
at night, and tell me how we'd sit in firelight,
hearing dogs huff in sleep, hearing the geese
hiss in the barn, hearling the horse clop home.
Say how the waterfall sounds, and how the weeds
trail in the slithering river.
Write me about the weather.
Perhaps..
明續...
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