October
29, 2003 (I
was 58)
West Running
Things have changed Robert,
not so much on the old Derry farm.
What you wrote caused them to stop things there,
a sort of snapshot during one of your transitions,
like the set of a play after the actors have gone.
Though there was blue sky and full green of summer,
the memory is in sepia tones, the wood of the barn,
the wallpaper smell as I bent to read
the titles of your shelved books,
classics, and no surprises there.
I imagined the surrounding white of winter
as viewed from an upstairs window,
that strong-contrast theme again
and that working across the grain;
that contrary stream pushing away from the sea;
and that home burial dialogue
up and down the stairs.
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