Nature ran its course over tepid streams
and struggling vines
and stranded voices of the vast open plain
laying all there was to offer
and all that could be jeopardised,
he put down in a moment of suspension
a parallel line between earth and sky
in the confession of fleeting unity.
This was the last time
I used the word ‘we’.
Nothing reminded me of him
more than the cows and the corn
and the soft shadow of a red-sky tomorrow.
It’s like you belonged in that other realm,
waiting to be painted by some Impressionist
impressed by the golden greys
of the still-life momentum.
Hay stacks and arched backs
echoed the times we made love
au naturel and en plein air:
thank God you’re a country boy!
Thank God for the forces
that held the universe together
long enough for us to meet and mate
the senselessness of solitariness
with an arm
holding my universe
to his ever-heaving frame.
And now the wind blows through those furrowed fields,
fallowed and fallen silent in the shallow shade –
where you lay
at the time of the Great Harvest,
where you return all that you have borrowed,
where your grass is always green.