The last of the 8 o’clock sunsets

Bill Pearse

The clouds are dragon tongues,
painted Nordic boats
and they blow me back to Scotland,
to the fall,
to shrill winds and leafless trees,
to the comfort of wool
and soup,
smoked fish,
and sleep.

Now the shrubs are shriveled, closed
umbrellas waiting to be opened —
and the grass is drawn dry,
the color of the hills
in the Highlands.

It’s the last of the 8 o’clock sunsets until next April
they said — we burned the last of the plum tree,
watered the beds —
the geese cry to leave,
as do I.

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Inspired by a post yesterday at the splendid blog, Moss and Fog.

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