Summer: Two Postcards Home


William W. Morgan

1. June 15.
A tiny dry fly found me one
last-chance trout tonight--
just at dark, in a mighty wind:
the stars stood still and watched,
but everything else thrashed
about, beating the blind
and arbitrary air. I wanted you
there, whipping black night
and wrinkled water beside me.
2. August 17.
I climbed today through sunlight
so yellow you could stroke it
onto Blagdon Hill, then Bullbarrow above
the Blackmoor Vale, and White Nothe
over opal-blue-green Weymouth Bay:
the chattering gulls are in from the shore,
following the plow and gorging
on earthworms; blackberries, rich
as wine, speckle the dark hedgerows,
fall off at a touch in your hands.
All day a ghost has hung just
out of sight, whispering: this must be
what it feels like to die--to stand
on a high hill with the wind in your face
and think How achingly beautiful
it all is.
I’m coming home, my love.
The Thomas Hardy Journal, XIII:2 (May 1997): 34-5