This Evening

The wind bothers the ash.
It trips its way through
the green leaves
like a magician
encouraging spells.
Or perhaps it is a god in a moment of anger.
It rattles the window

as if someone knocking
to be let in.  Maybe it's you,
after five years gone,
ready to return.
I can hear my voice
calling names,
but it does not matter:

there is nothing left
to save but the sound
of the wind thrashing,
old memories collapsing
as if they ever mattered,
their business long since
over, this evening, this hour,

this constant time in space.


John Cornwall
If you've any comments on his poem, John Cornwall will be glad to hear from you.