JOHN HOLLOWAY

My friend the hill farmer A thoughtful man. Often I saw him, rock-sheltered

away from the wire of the wind, on the moor, watching

his solemn cattle, and

pondering - I didn’t know. But often, chilled to ice,

I would stop, squat beside him, hid from wind-wire,

and the talk would begin.

A modest man. Often all he said were questions.

Once he asked me just where the moon goes, between

the old crescent and

new . . . three slow moonless darknesses. Neither

of u s could throw any light. Is he there still, solitary,

pondering things like that? Well he may be. Because

just how many things are

gap between crescents. Or worse. Questions without answers,

solemn with silence. Be wise . . . rest content,

out of the wind.

time tells

like that dark

64 Critical Quarterly, vol. 29, no. 4

Back to the village 'Sacred to the memory . . ,' I read as I pass the miscellany graveyard. But this iceing- sugary stone (cuts like soap) and the flash

lettering now, make me reflect

Answer, Yes. Or why would I fall silent, going up that lane, and always turn back at the last bend, not to see

'Is nothing sacred . . .?'

the long house, dark among oaks, as it was

in the beginning . . . Half hidden No, -hiding, holy places. The air falls still as you near them. Day changing

to potent and Other. You fill

itself, nor anything else: a waiting for I do not know. Moments grow into minutes. But don't go near, or try

to touch. Turn back, turn back in

with a fear that is not

silence, from all

holy places, but not, empty-handed. No, like a change in weather, new key modulating in music, or morning's early

opening rose, awaken finding a world holy.

Poems 65

Premonition? Black grave-digger card. Ace

of you know what. A wolf somewhere in the meadow or music.

Yes, somewhere, black ace

shuffling blindly on into play in this evening of mellow light fading. I do not know what

blackness, howl, giant blankness

void in the far distance moves meaninglessly toward us; maybe nothing, a glimpsed coming

shrivelled and gone; but comes again

across these songbird vespers, dusk filtered with starlight, uncertain as mist or midge . . . but again

and closer now . . . black grave-ace

or wolf, won't, won't go: comfort, warmth, wine, slumber, conclusion; but still

some sound of howling, slither, of cards.