Martin Robertson

Now and Then


The sun is soft, soft the blue horizon

from which a dozen greens melt towards gold.

Summer and I are neither young nor old,

the quiet middle reaches.  


But something cries on

in me, timeless and harsh.  I feel harden

here in my chest that lump of childish lead

(and a man’s framework croaks towards death, in bed

above the scavenged garden).