Two Poems

FOR THE SUMMER

Leaving the swaddled baby
Sleeping radiantly
Tucked up in her cradle,
And Sal
About to lie and down and rest,
On a hot November evening
I went running into the forest.

The eucalypts rang
With the fire alarm clangour
Of cicadas keening
And hardly anything sang:
There was no point,
The bug lamentations
Were everywhere dominant.

On the side of a tall hill
I looked into the blue
That had seemed indelible
But was now growing pale
And saw dark wands
Weaving to and fro
On cryptic errands.

No, they were swifts,
Down from the Himalaya
For the summer,
Free wheeling cursive
Against the bright beyond—
And as I neared the crest
I became aware of a sound

I was lucky to hear,
They ride so unreachably
High in the air:
The tiny cries of joy
That the birds made
Eating up the day
As it glowed and faded.

UNKNOWN HANDYMAN

Go tell my wife, who wanted this pergola constructed,
I have obeyed her orders and am dead.