Below us, the fog lake rises
on the slopes of Gilliam Ridge.
It wells up and boils over like milk
and flows down the sides in a slow dance,
bathing the trees with dew and moisture.
The peaks of the Cedars and Red Slide
juts out of angular winter shadow
like pyramids catching the sun.
Below us, hikers climb out of the ravines
of Austin Creek Park
and a chainsaw buzzes.
a woodpecker calls to her mate,
and somewhere, far off, a lamb bleats for its mother.
Somewhere, to the south, near Point Reyes
a killer is stalking.
The sunshine is so warm.
we take off our woolen clothing.
Our bare skin and feet stroked by the glow
of winter sunlight.
Our eyes grow heavy with sleep.
The body of fog, like fur on dogshit, rolls towards us,
and three ravens slice across its surface
making their own kind of offering to the land.
The sun, in the southernmost acre of the sky,
needs no-blood, no bonfires
to bring it back from winter solstice.
I hear the ticking of the clock.
The ticking of the clock...
I repeat a line from one of my earlier poems.
I learn to settle down like a cat among lines
of my own choosing.
They keep coming back to haunt me
like those nameless faces
of the murdered women of Point Reyes.
A roaring sound is heard.
Does the fog roar through trees as it passes through?
Winter Solstice
1980
One of the few poems of 1980 that I actually dated. There's also a reference to the Trailside Killer, this is one version. I can't find a decent copy of the other version. Added 11/16 minor revisions & line breaks. There's also a prose version, probably a first draft for this poem, Winter Solstice, 1980.
No comments:
Post a Comment