Knute Skinner: Two Poems

From Inside the Window

The window looks down upon

the formal garden.

The garden walls itself off

from the climbing meadow.

The meadow comes to a halt

at the lowering sky.

The sky confirms the report

of approaching weather.

The weather will wear itself out

besetting the window.

The Last Bus

The last bus to the city has gone,

the very last bus.

We think about that bus as we walk through the village,

dead leaves scudding across the road.

Soon those of us who remain

will walk past bare-breasted trees

to the third village lamp post and back,

the city a pale recollection.

Soon we’ll bundle in anoraks and greatcoats

to negotiate footpaths barely scraped clear

of the drifting snow,

the city a wind’s breath away.

When the first hesitant shoots

shine in watery sunlight,

we’ll gather in tight hopeful knots

at the village square.

Knute Skinner