The sad harper’s tune
lays a bare hand upon the tree among the moon
and all the roadside leading there
is white and even and very bare.
I have come calling and courting there
out in the courtyard with the rickety tree
and the lastless leaves that lie
on and move past my feet as my moving feet pass by.
This square is all alone in the white square:
the very strong well of the frost building fair
passions and pictures in my catching hair
in the hoary windless moonlight.
My love has never been here or there
Nor will she ever be here ever soon.
St-Lambert, circa 1982.