Heeding the call

Poem published in Future Welcome: The Moosehead Anthology 10 edited by Todd Swift

Heeding the call

In the night-wind the house quakes. Its arthritic

timbers mutter sarcastically, and chase me
pyjama-clad into the empty, watchful garden.

Agricultural vehicles like steel-limbed insects
ply the lanes, igniting the hedgerows.
Nettles probe the air. On patrol in the orchards

small birds interrogate illegal immigrants.

From behind the hawthorn curtain comes the dry rasp
of a horse coughing like a man
trying to hawk up a cancer. I cover my ears.

Yesterday, I heard the hollow chimes of a woodpost
ringing under the mallet, and I saw the soil split apart
and I knew: the drunks would be home early tonight.

Earthlight in the east, rising above the serrated ridge
of the black conifer regiments, the cold swarming
indistinguishable mass, approaching with a low drone
my stony outpost …

I have etched the fields with straight lines, like the Inca.
The lustre of the damson irradiates the garden.

Goodbye to this half-life! I’m waiting for you,
Extra-terrestrials. Get me out of here.