Five Poems

Reluctance
There's no way back
along the rutted lanes and puddles
where light settles
into a final liquefaction
of its natural uses.

Will tomorrow come?
None of us knows for certain
or cares enough to ask.
Flakes of sky drift down
on the open moor.

There's only the wind
brushing softly on the door.
What that means
is an innuendo of harvest plaits,
marks of the tribe.
...