Before the sun blots the dew from the bud
and hardens the resin weeping from the tree,
and memories start darting in and out
like swallows in the eaves, before sleeves
fill with arms and the first doubt comes
and butterfly nets have caught us

beside the hillside sloping away
beside the river running to the sea;
before a single bell bursts forth brightly
and all the shadows shorten,
leave us an edge and your wet footprints
to make our way back to the night.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 34 Number 7, on page 24
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