Kneeling

Somebody else kneeling where my quad came to grief last weekend.

South of My Days Circle

Oh, they slide and they vanish 

as he shuffles the years like a pack of conjuror's cards. 

True or not, it's all the same; and the frost on the roof 

cracks like a whip, and the back-log break into ash. 

Wake, old man. this is winter, and the yarns are over. 

No-one is listening 

South of my days' circle. 

I know it dark against the stars, the high lean country 

full of old stories that still go walking in my sleep. 

from South of My Days Circle by Judith Wright