New Hampshire

 

alone in the night
on the rock beside the black glass lake rippled by loons
two hours ago,
disturbed by a splash and a splash, and a cricket over there,
and the purple-yellow moon-smudge double-image sinking
towards an unattainable convergence in the black of the curve of the hills,

and the sandbar-island fading into the thick flat gray of the night

(tree-like shadows jutting up to an interruption of the sky),
the thickening gray of the night presided over by a few transient stars

stilly,
and the shore’s dirt-sand coolly damp on the rough sensitive skin of the

sole
of the foot,
lit up gloamingly by a lantern in the cottage,
as the dirty peeling paper of the birch trees behind me falls
without noise
into the green carpet of vines
beside the sturdy, stoic gray white trunk...

 

above the imagined lake shine stars unhindered by the moon;
the lantern has gone out,
all that remains is the still sand and the single splash and the descending black

and the blanket of nature’s nocturne...

Wright's Writing

© 2014-2020 by Chris Wright