166

In the morning after the rain
            Of the night the air rose
                        In the sudden depression.
As John stood in the
            Aperture of the back door
                        He could feel a wind draw
His shirt out before him
            And see the trees lifting their
                        Confluent limbs into it.
The air tasted of rain, of
            The moss and bracken growing
                        Out of the outside wall
Wet and half crushed
            By the wheelbarrow that was leant
                        Against the wall, wheel down.
He went across the yard
            And to the edge of the trees
                        And lit a cigarette.
The ashes and shortlived
            Cinders of it ran down the wind
                        Following diverse paths into
The wood, each particle
            Threading its own way.
                        Silent and fugitive lights.
The soil was expiring—
            The scrub grass animated in the
                        Draft as if it were lit.
The sky was grey and heavy.
            John threw the last of the cigarette
                        Overarm into the wind.