By Anthony Matheson
This is a moment in late afternoon,
a moment in early evening ‑
the sun‑etched day behind;
ahead, the hidden night.
Across the dale the eye levels
at the distant edge,
the weight of wood, the slash of sky.
It’s a very casual thing,
that these should be the people in the bar tonight,
almost inconsequential that the lens of conversation
has its focus where it does.
But
after the sun’s simplicity
the pregnant clouds heave up,
the dale begins to flood;
the anticipation, the threat, obtrude
into our talk.
Our words talk of other words, of ideas
and comprehension and coherence,
and also something human,
something hazardous.
The thickening river is driving upward,
the rich and heavy cloud bears down.
Treacherously sheltered
in the bar, the talk
seems just like talk in a bar.
The revels end, we depart,
one to the night’s concealment,|
one to the obscurity of words.
The mass of water, the bulk of cloud
drift and flow with their own compulsions,
one just below the edge, one just above.