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.