Of the Yard (after Terry Ball)

 

in this month at this hour
the sun reaches over into the yard
and draws up cool shadows
the remnants of night

in this month
at this hour
the sun reaches over
and draws up
slakes its thirst
in the cool dark shadow

at this hour
at this time of year
the yard is an oven
when the sun has slaked its thirst
in the long shadow
remnant of night

this hour
this time of year
the yard is an oven
when sun’s unquenchable thirst
swings the angled shadows
against the wall
draws up shades

this time of year
this hour
the sun reaches into the yard
slakes its thirst
at in deep cool shadows
remnants of night
embedded in the ornate carvings
over the door and windows

at this time of year
this hour
the yard is an oven
the sun reaches its tongue of fire
draws up
slakes its thirst in the remnants of night
as if darkness could be drunk
from where it hung
against the ornate facade

the yard becomes an oven
at this time of year
this hour
the sun reaches over
slakes its thirst in the long cool shadows
those remnants of night
that hung
seem to soften
our early hammering

the yard is an oven
this time of year
at this hour
the sun reaches over
slaking in one gulp
devours deep cool shadows
those remnants of night
that hung
muffling the rhythmic
ring of our hammering of chisels

the yard is an oven
at this time of year
at this hour
the sun reaches over
to devour the long cool shadows
those remnants of night
that hung muffling
the rhythmic ring of our
hammering chisels against stone

at this time of year
at this hour
the yard is an oven
the sun has reached over
to devour
the long cool shadows
those remnants of night
that hung
muffling the rhythmic ring
of our hammers working the stone

at this time of year
this hour
the yard is an oven
the sun reaches over to devour
the long cool shadows
to abruptly drag them up
leaving a few rags here and there

at this time of year
in this hour
the yard becomes an oven
as the sun reaches over
to [give our] devour
long cool shadows
to abruptly drag up its gift
leaving patches
snagged in bischen mouldings

at this time of year
this hour
the sun reaches over
into the deep cool shadows
that hang in the yard
drags them up
leaving only scraps here and there

this time of year
this hour
the sun reaches over
and slakes its thirst
sharply drags up
to devour
the deepest shadows
that hang in the yard

at this time of year
this hour
the sun reaches over
to slake its thirst
to devour
deep cool shadows
it hung in the yard

at this time of year
at this hour
the sun reaches over into the yard
to devour the deep shadows
that hung there giving us succour
to slake a constant thirst
and those remnants of night
leaving only scraps
snagged in broken mouldings

this hour
the yard becomes an oven
the sun reaches over to devour
long cool shadows
that hung
slaking a thirst
in the remnants of night

this hour
this time of year
the yard is an oven
the sun reaches over
to devour
to withdraw
those remnants of night
that hung here

at this time year
the yard becomes an oven
each of us working here
cutting stone
contrive a shield
against the glare

this hour
this time of year
the yard is an oven
the sun reaches over
to devour
those cool remnants of night

at this time of year
the yard becomes an oven
each of us here
working with stone
contrive a shield
against the glare
this hour when the sun arches over
to devour
cool remnants of night
that hung here
abruptly dragged up
all shade

at this time of year
at this hour
the yard is an oven
the sun reaches down
into the yard
to slake a thirst
when darkness draws
the remnants of night

at this time of year
this hour
the yard is an oven
no sea laps here
the sun reaching down
drags up cool shadows
that hung here
leaving only remnants of night’s dark air

at this time of year
this hour
the yard is an oven
no sea laps near
the sun reaches down
drag cool shadows away
leaving only remnants of night darkened air

at this time of year
this hour
the yard is an oven
no sea laps near
the sun reaches down
drags up
the long cool shadows
leaving only
remnants of night
in hollow cut vines
scrolling over windows

at this hour
the yard is an oven
no cool river laps near
the sun drains
all shade that hung here
leaving only rags
snagged under hollow cut vines
hung over the windows

at this time of year
this hour
the yard is an oven
no cool river runs near
no sea laps
the sun at this hour
draws away those remnants of night
that hung here
leaving only rags snagged
in broken mouldings

of this time of year
of this hour
(when the) sun abruptly takes back
its gift of shadow
and within it darker remnant of night
that nourished the early hours

at this time of year
in this hour
the yard becomes an oven
as the sun draws cool air
folded in the last remnants of night
that hung here

at this time of year
the yard is an oven
in this hour
the sun burns away
in the remnants of night’s moist air
that nourished
only rags left behind
snagged in hollow cut
of vines scrolling in spirals
of acanthus leaves

at this time of year
at this hour
the sun abruptly withdraws
its gift of shadow
and with it the last remnants of night’s moist air
that nourished the early hours
leaving behind only dark rags

in this hour
at this time of year
the yard is an oven
the sun moves over
drains away
those moist folds
in the remnants of night
that hung here
leaving only rags
snagged in hollow moulded
vines that snake over windows

the yard here is an oven
at this hour
at this time of year
when the sun’s insatiable thirst
drains away dark moist air
from the remnant of night
that was our succour

at this time of year
in this hour
the yard is an oven
the sun’s thirst seems insatiable
drains moist folds
the remnants of night
that hung here
only rags are left

the yard here is an oven
at this hour
at this time of year
the sun’s insatiable thirst
drains dark moist air
from those folds
in the remnants of night
that hung here gave us succour

no river Bevida runs
no Sea of Caesarea laps the stones
the yard is an oven
at this time of year
in this hour
the insatiable sun
drains the cool dark air
from the last remnants of night

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