One night
After Robinson Jeffers
I like it when
the birds return
after a storm:
the voice of the first
to throw its notes out
like a little net
across the wet night
which is nearly dawn.
The storm is not your own
but a reflection of other forces.
Nevertheless, I lay listening
thinking of you lying listening
to each crack and ripple:
the world thrown to the floor
and scorched in two.
This after I dreamt
the house was on fire
but burning so slowly there was time
to rescue every cup
and choose what to keep
at our leisure
as if it was under our control
whilst also completely out of it.
The weather giving
just as generously
to the last. Dousing it all with rain
and the plants drinking.