Dear, far off-brother, Thank you for yours,
And for the gift you send of little shells.
Evening. It has been an April day
Like any you remember. I guess
How you miss the English spring, the way
A shower cloud over a hillside spills
Between sunlight and sunlight, slowly.
Is it half a year since you've been gone?
While you gather up windfall nutmegs
My white magnolia flowers fly
Withering from the twig like cotton rags
I must rake tomorrow from the lawn.
I wonder what news you want to hear:
That everything remains as it was
Before you left? That we are well? That
Swallows, like molecules of summer,
Warm on the wall behind the dovecote?
All is satisfactory in this house.
I read over again what you tell me.
Outside your window you've had grapefruits
Ripening through winter; there's a calf
You love to let suck your fingers. I
Relish these images of your new life,
Though the dinning sun above you hurts
My eyes as I gaze. Easier for you,
Perhaps, to think back to the shadow
Of this temperate, darkening garden,
Where I sit and look for my last few
Doves to come home. They will soon swoop down,
Just as you recall they always do.
From the roof, each full throat soon will soothe
Nightfall once more. This morning I made
A first cut of the grass since autumn.
It smelt sweet in the sun, in the swathe
Where I left it to dry. I fetched my gun
And sought out a sickly dove and killed
It clean, and let it warm where it fell.
Whether it is white, loosened feathers
I glimpse in the half-dusk or blossoms
Lifting with the wind I cannot tell,
But I am glad to have you share them.
There are words not used between brothers,
And you will understand if I send
No more than these, the shrivelling details
Of a lost and uneventful day.
The birds are folded now. I shall stand
A moment more in the dead grass we
Walked on. My palms close cold over shells.
