On the Mardyke Way

Before skies turn acetylene, before
I am discovered by rod and lineman,
I will lie here in creeping bent and rye.
 
I will lie here, looking up at the crown
shyness of conifer, desperation
of stunted oak. Up at the withered wire
 
of dried cows parsley – in a silhouette
akin to chair-a-planes. Up, at thistle
florets; today, playing at being spider.
 
Looking up – up past the frilled blackstrap
underside of toadstools. Who watch with me
from their splitted-lip caps topped with iris
 
or cornea (or a dying nebulae).
It is here I will consider my place
in the universe, for those last few minutes.
 
Dreaming, beside the drainage ditch. Dreaming
in my shades body – that the sun might dance
upon my name once more. Before the rod,
 
lineman both reach my meadow grass and find
me leached and already on my way.
Down to crust, to core. Down to the mantle.
 

Joseph Long

poem published in Blackbox Manifold, Iss 33, Winter 2024