The Grove

It's sunset but the sun will not go down. 
It hangs behind the sheltering trees and shines 
with pale persistent luminosity, 
an anxious clinging child who hesitates 
to leave the comforting hem of the evening haze, 
as if this were the day to end all days. 

Here is a park, a still reflecting pool, 
a formal walk, a wood with umber shade, 
warm depths that nestle bird and bumblebee. 
Outside the wood is a wall with an open gate 
that closes now. No exit. All is quiet, 
and the trees are limned with a new unkindly light. 

An old man waits for me beside the pool. 
Each of us has sought the other out. 
We stroll the path while he speaks earnestly 
of something I can sense may be too late. 
An urgent light is growing in his eyes. 
Above the treeline, sudden missiles rise. 

Their thunder wakes the wood, they climb to height 
through scattering birds, then fade from sound and sight. 
The patient bees resume their chores. I wait, 
reflecting in the half-hour left to me. 
The sun sets in the old man's somber gaze. 
This is the day, the day to end all days.


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