‘I wander by the edge
Of this desolate lake
Where wind cries in the sedge:’ —W.B. Yeats
Standing here, at the edge of the lake
I am standing at the edge of the world.
The grass is summer-bleached,
Rattles in the wind like an old woman’s hair,
And the water is dark – darker
Than any domestic thing,
Darker than any secret.
Back in June, the water caught the sky
Like a woman catching her lover’s gaze,
And there were skylarks
But now the water is a pool of night
In this grey, empty morning,
And there are no more birds.
The wind that’s blowing winter in
Has blown them all away,
Down to lower ground,
Swept away like stories.
Day 22 of a November with Yeats. It’s bleak and windy today, you might guess that from this poem.