Plainsong

 

Stop. Along this path, in phrases of light,

trees sing their leaves. No Midas touch

has turned the wood to gold, late in the year

when you pass by, suddenly sad, straining

to remember something you’re sure you knew.

 

Listening. The words you have for things die

in your heart, but grasses are plainsong,

patiently chanting the circles you cannot repeat

or understand. This is your homeland,

Lost One, Stranger who speaks with tears.

 

It is almost impossible to be here and yet

you kneel, no one’s child, absolved by late sun

through the branches of a wood, distantly

the evening bell reminding you, Home, Home,

Home, and the stone in your palm telling the time.

 

By Carol Ann Duffy