There are ancient nomads
crossing the page today.
They arrived when I looked out the window
to consider the desultory snow fall.
How bright the women in their red woven capes
their golden bangles, their warm boots
furnished with jangling bangles
scavenged, no doubt from all
the fallen worlds they have crossed.
The men, their swords enclosed
in beaded sheaths, their faces
weathered but so calm. They have
each others backs: they are the point men,
beautiful, fearless, black and silver.
Immortals all, I’m sure of it. They’ll
be at the pass tonight, watering the horses
at Lost Lake, or maybe out at Camp Sherman.
But now, fading away, leaving behind
a different empty page.
crossing the page today.
They arrived when I looked out the window
to consider the desultory snow fall.
How bright the women in their red woven capes
their golden bangles, their warm boots
furnished with jangling bangles
scavenged, no doubt from all
the fallen worlds they have crossed.
The men, their swords enclosed
in beaded sheaths, their faces
weathered but so calm. They have
each others backs: they are the point men,
beautiful, fearless, black and silver.
Immortals all, I’m sure of it. They’ll
be at the pass tonight, watering the horses
at Lost Lake, or maybe out at Camp Sherman.
But now, fading away, leaving behind
a different empty page.
A lovely piece. So imaginative.
ReplyDeleteHi Lorna. Wonderful detail here, contributing to the feeling of a panoramic painting, something done by a 19th century Russian realist, the women in their red capes and bangles, the boots, the watering horses, the black and silver, the landscape, hardly mentioned but vast and perfectly present. The final lines leave such a powerful feeling of the poetic process at work.
ReplyDelete