SEVEN

A windy river bank
Early in May,
Spring’s rinse at bay;
A very cold afternoon,
Whose sun couldn’t come too soon,
And everything blows open clearly,
And grows very freely
To a height that nearly
Is big.

A windy windy river bank,
Well into the year,
And sunned nowhere near;
Small trees with names carved in,
Where lovers might have been,
And bandstands sound so much older,
And appear more lonely
When the weather is colder,
As now.

A very very nearly summer’s day,
And all of an hour
Until moonlight devours,
And unveils how
Every bold figure
In this wind will wither,
And anybody who still stands
Will be blown beyond this land’s
Archive.