On all these slow strolls dipped in sunset,
lengthening grassy dapples, metaled
reflections on park-lakes, canal, river,
twilight hushed, harkening to silence...
Even birds seem muted: flocks of coots
graze (no comment) lake banks; only corellas
crowd aloud, raucous a treeful. Listlessly
big wing squarks off in squadrons,
autumn breeze goosepimpling stillness.
The autumn ghost inhabiting motors
contents itself with quality not quantity,
draws such a haunting Doppler cautionary;
at sunset blazon sounds like three a.m
way-back-when adolescence bordering
on the first dose of insomnia.
Thoughtlessness becomes a precious thing:-
to drift, to slip-slide, straighten, twist
to eddy, Sargasso-grassy, eel-oiled,
leave the numbers and the charts behind;
the compassionate anger at criminal neglect,
the utter horror of the care-home slaughters.
For the world will hoop and cooper you,
bind you tight with hypertension unless you
just
leak out of it all,
quantum style,
and go
slow strolling
dipped in sunset.
