Wind of Change

It’s a rattle

A clang, perhaps

Metal and rhythmic

That reminds me of cool

Autumn nights

And mellow strolls

Alone, by twos.


Yes, back then, one night

We found a flag

Ripped and torn

Loose on the grass, a rag

Lonely and down

From its endless flight

And we paused around it.


We walked on in the dark, then,

There in the park

And squeezed our hands too tight

And now I sigh

My tears in pools

Hearing the loose-rope flagpole.

That’s not what I would choose.


From The Stuttering Priest, 1984.