November with Yeats 22

 

‘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.