The Moderns

From the Southwest, the winter’s wind

first extends,

then flicks, its wrist

and crusty Van Gogh

Brushstrokes

sweep the canvas of Lough Currane

to Termons

Lilting toward the canyon cove beyond

As in genesis,

the spirit ‘moves upon the face of the waters’ and

life appears,

like nothing seen

on the moon

or Mars or anywhere else yet

and nowhere afar or in between

The story remains untold,

as yet unknown, but the draft,

full of promise and romance,

invites me in to dream

of what is

and what will be—

To see

This is no simple space

No accidental grace.

But the moderns

walk on asphalt

and cement sidewalks

past plastic bags

full of trash

each night

No wonder they are skeptics.