Thursday, 26 March 2020

Do clouds watch us?


Do clouds watch our mute trundling
and try to see shapes there?
Do trees recall a forgotten history
from our time-layered skins?
Do the cliffs examine our faults and
extrusions, to map old seismic shifts;
and does the moon count
our florid waxings and wanings?

The ravening flames of a fire
know the way we are consumed
by oxygen, and so does
the rust on the bridge.
The farm furrows understand
the planting of the seed potatoes,
and the miracle of pushing out,
head-butting to the light.

Does a graveyard feel a terrible sorrow
for a future that’s not yet chiseled in granite?
Does the headstone wait nervously
to be given a name?
Does the earth fear the worst:
does she wake, wide-eyed, at night,
frantic for us, for the humans,
and the race they can’t, yet, put right?

-         Philomena van Rijswijk 2020