rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Vacation

I'm not sure why the autumn deprives me of my attention, hogging it all to itself, and while the work is undone I stare at drifts of leaves, or those particular patches of sky where mere ghosts of clouds suggest sails, or at nothing at all that I can remember upon returning to myself. The day trails off, another drift of leaves, a not quite empty patch of sky.

Last night a fine overcast kept the shadows soft, but tonight it is clear again and the bright moon glares into the empty faces of the houses across the street. I feel as blank as they look. The hours taken, the vacant street I stare across.




Sunday Verse


No Road


by Philip Larkin


Since we agreed to let the road between us
Fall to disuse,
And bricked our gates up, planted trees to screen us,
And turned all time's eroding agents loose,
Silence, and space, and strangers—our neglect
Has not had much effect.

Leaves drift unswept, perhaps; grass creeps unmown;
No other change.
So clear it stands, so little overgrown,
Walking that way tonight would not seem strange,
And still would be followed. A little longer,
And time would be the stronger,

Drafting a world where no such road will run
From you to me;
To watch that world come up like a cold sun,
Rewarding others, is my liberty.
Not to prevent it is my will's fulfillment.
Willing it, my ailment.
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