Half Way House

Hastening slowly to nowhere
candled because solar panels hate grey
I listen to the long-grain rain
wondering if it’s enough or too much
for farmers, the dams, the drain
for J’s just-shorn sheep
two of his flock black as tonight.
Did I do enough today?
roaring brushcutter, quiet weeding
curing the olives, get it right?
salt, oregano, garlic, bayleaves, thyme …
with the sense of the other
running out, the stone beneath the flesh.
These knees say “certainly, yes”
as do hands, back, wind-burned face
but, typically, top-end says it would be
“had you done nothing at all”
drunk wine, hummed half-remembered hits
discussed love/death, the rise and fall
with the returning swallows
in the gravity they carve and mock.

What you should do now, old crock,
you with enough Portuguese red inside,
is step out into the wet black
let the rain darken your hair
add your half litre to the lemon tree there
bid goodnight to the procreative swallows
in their hard-mud home under the porch
return, snuff the half-way-down candles
grope to half a double bed by torch,
the new pillow she gave you
half enough.