That is, news, that's with me
Something went wrong
on the road nearby.
A village,
its attendant roads,
or something,
fell, into a quarry.
Now every minute,
each evening and eating
into the silence
of the nights with me
wagons, heavy,
rumbling wagons about,
every seventy seconds.
Clouds, rain,
not constant,
but good enough
to drown
that eclipse.
And work, not endless,
but nearly.
Have to keep
the end in mind,
or I would end it,
this toiling,
returning to
these soils.
Oh, and I pray a little,
reflect, sleep, eat, rest
when the remembering
is in me
and when on me
the illusion of time
is nigh.
Read, a love poem, or two
the ones with them and with me,
no one else.
Also currants to prune,
as fruit is now
long shat on the ground
by my errant friends
the blackbirds.
Too much, detail.
Plot little getaways by me,
but they can't be long
for forms fill my other time.
So, all in all,
not much news.
No neolithic frolics, bless me.
For with me, just unreturned messages.
Apropos car sharing, that one,
but more perhaps.
And just thought, this;
It seems I will not see you again,
in this life.
Not really, see.
That is, news, that's with me,
in this night.