Art | The Poetry Foundation

—for Fleda

It seems so different art that moves me now

From the sort of art I longed for long ago

Soaring Vatic Agon

I waited yesterday on the unsure shoulder

Of a drenched back road From my car I could behold

Our highway agent Gordon

Fill a rut with a spade climb up on his grader

And smooth things smooth as the top of a kitchen table

There were frost heaves by the score

And culverts clotted shut by April floods

So it was brilliant what Gordon did with mud

On Wallace Hill Pure mire

Out there The road goes narrow as a needle

On which you might wonder could dance how many angels

I don't care I didn't

No earthly need to summon spirits daemons

No sign of them at all Nor would I dream one

I might have once but wouldn't

Nor gyre nor golem Nor great Leviathan

Nor djinn Nor fiend Nor signifying wind

Nor Elementargeist

That lingering in that lane might make me conjure

I had to get somewhere and fetch my daughter

To bring her home Sweet Christ

She might be standing in that mix of sleet

And ugly rain which called for Gordon's art

I'm trying to be a grownup

Better late than never I suppose

Or am I only jaded I don't know

It was as though I'd shown up

Just to see him wield his spade and blade out there

It kept me from surmising some furor

divinis Why should I bother

Now that I moved on thanks be to Gordon

Who signaled with his thumb for me to pass him

He pulled the grader over

Yes give me something useful here I said

Impromptu In my car it sounded odd

To say it now sounds different

I hope that Gordon watched me yesterday

As I signaled back I'd never have made my way

Without a skillful agent

I hope he saw me wave

Source: I Was Thinking of Beauty (Four Way Books, 2013)