Cricket Poem

Or from Under His Mountains

He was out painting the fish shape,
The reeds came as thoughts
in a sleepless Night,
The cold kitchen table
A scent here,
A touch here

Mother and death, here,
the sea, here
Touch touch,
here here
Tally was-- Here,
now! though It whispered

the Mother, and Night
The Death and the Sea,
whispered and repeated
The beauty in the order,
in the red rust reeds

Flowing in disposition,
flown Of season
And light, Cycling from
the moments passing--
Revolved and around, The stars-- blazed
In the shadows, If you saw them

What made him, He was,
And the stroke
Thought and hatch,
And over hatch, Was his word
Saying it, Silence, Shh
In the rustling, not here,

The glimpses--
Wind whipped, Diamonded surface-- pink tint
Invigorating, and returning,
The walk back Inhaling breath, And exhale
of relief,
Back in the car, home,

on a winding road
Watching for deer.