Summer without Words
In a grey part of summer I watch
a gull-shadow on harbour ripples:
an alphabet is splintered so fast
it could never be halted and whole.
In a sharp ochre part of summer,
with a taste of something that's been stored
and a presence about to leave us
and another one waiting for us,
I watch a cypress twig-shadow write
on a red gable, a shaky hand.
There's no alphabet for the writer.
There's no alphabet for the reader.