A wind from the South, bringing rain.
The wires tremble, trying to remember
the art of winter and the arrangement
of a thousand glassy silvery eyes: they knew it once
My lady of summer glances back, amused,
but she doesn't bother to wave.
She's already thinking of a dalliance
she might resume where the river Plate
freshens the Atlantic, and little fish
twinkle on crowded decks,
and the southern lapwing calls.
Here, the ribs of the sky expand,
and every gutter runs
clean but tannin-stained. If I falter,
it is my age: a strong steady hanker
still draws me to the wind.
it is October,
when the greater gods and goddesses arrive.