November with Yeats #10

‘And he saw how the reeds grew dark
At the coming of night-tide,’ W.B. Yeats.

The reeds were a black
scratch scratch against
the amber sky.

The birds
came in. I watched them
wheeling, swinging in
patterned clouds across
the light.

I didn’t think
of you at all, and then
I wondered if someone,
on some infinitely long
exposure, could watch
our dance, the pattern
we have made, with our
deft instincts, our
sensing of each other’s
presence.

I wonder if
we make such clouds
of light and dark as these,
such great whorls,
broken finger prints,
like contour patterns,
showing the heights,
the depths.

 

Jane has done it again. And so have I.