by Robert Nisbet
It really felt as if we were a Western-wagon couple,
bundling into some new dimension of land and meaning.
Now, like a clumsy nineteenth century cart wheel,
we’ve lurched into the territory’s ditch.
You’ll leave for a while, to teach history again,
in the English Midlands, wait on resurgent times.
I’ll keep this place going, for sure,
feed the chickens, chop sticks, bundle them …
Keep the home fires burning,
that song must be seventy years ago now …
tend the crops, the shop, the children.
Tonight’s curious iridescent sunset,
out on the cliffs beyond Solva,
is not so much a failing of the light
as a washing down, a making spruce.
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