Vox Populi
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Dawn Potter: Piers Plowman
Nay, in all that toil, backbent, flash of cigarette,
eartips red in sunsplash sunsorrow, hands
ground to bone—
Listen—
In the groans of cattle, insects angelsing,
skyskiff clouds break and gather, swallows
swift as thought strip the summerspun
air, clank of baler, of rake, seesaw swish of mower knives,
beehives ablaze in the heartstab hours—
Now ask—
Who mutters the low notes, croons the old riversift,
water tumbling into stone and sand? Who trembles
the cows clustered in the thin shade of the high hill?
I beg you—
Let me not forget to weep for him.
Copyright 2024 Dawn Potter
Dawn Potter’s many books include Accidental Hymn (Deerbrook, 2022). She lives in Portland, Maine, with her husband, the photographer Thomas Birtwistle.
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The sounds, the new vocabulary, the surprises! Brava!
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I love poetry that songs and soars. Thank you
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Sings and soars. Someday I will remember to read before hitting reply.
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I am unaccustomedly struck mute. What a poem. Brava!!
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Dawn Potter’s poem is a wonderful gift of song and sorrow. Thanks, Michael.
Warm regards, Susan Sailer
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Thanks, Susan!
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What a way to start the day. Bravissima!
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Yes!
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Dawn:
Those accursed flies! How they harbinge this season bearing down on us like a freight train. I saw them yesterday, all at the gate—the “first-timers” waiting, getting eaten alive.
This is such a great evocation of that figure of the farm upon whom everything matters!
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Thanks, Sean!
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