A light wind ruffles the river poplars,
rousing me from daydreams of gold and green;
when it reaches here, the beech leaves shiver
then settle back to this season’s regime
of warmth and silence and limitless time –
healing a body unused to this pace,
and with nothing to think of but how to find
more time to stow away in this place.
It moves through the woods, a secret spoken
by tree to tree, until it reaches the lane,
and from there, or thereabouts, half-woken,
a pigeon croons every now and again:
who? who is it? who-who, who is it?
who-who, who is it? who?
From Darklight (Book Of Poetry) by John FitzGerald. Published By Salvage Press, 2019