Prone

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Title:     Prone
Author: David Morton [More Titles by Morton]

Here where these grasses thrust between my fingers,
And where the earth against my palms is cool,
The hot day dies ... and only late light lingers
Above the shadowed valley's misty pool.
The trees have bent above me like tall lovers,
The stars return their slow, familiar way,
And a great, stirless quiet comes and covers
The traveller resting at the end of day.

I think this body, with its foolish fears,
May grow less foolish and less fearful so,
Learning that at the end of wandering years,
Waits but this house that it has come to know,
Familiar in its sleepy-hearted mirth,
The cool and kind and hospitable earth.

[The end]
David Morton's poem: Prone

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