One in a multitude
One day, lost, indistinguishable
now
amongst the host and multitude of days;
the stripes of yellow light upon the brow
behind the dark heads of the pines amaze,
define, strike dumb with sense; and so it treads
in wonderment, the moving silence seen
in distance, while, within oneself, threads
of heavy pasts work loose: what might have been
is at its brink. This day draws out; the rush
of life assumes a skyline surge, then goes
towards the certainty unvoiced. The flush
of colour sinks to grey – the quick stress slows –
the sky is pleated in a clouded sense
of time – rapidity to haste – and rain
is rolling in at nightfall. Soon the tense
reverts, disparages the dusk, and, sane
upon the spattered sash, a local gust,
directionless, which blows because it must.