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The country man squats
arms on his knees
still
and ape-like.
He smokes his own
rolled tobacco
slowly easing one hand
up
to his mouth.
The coolness of dusk
creeps in round him
to reward such a form
of a day's work.
A piece of time,
he knows,
is at home there.
And his woman
sees
from behind her screen door.
Standing linked to him,
just seeing
is all.
Her day now complete
her man home
and the wind
filtering her thoughts.
A bit of space,
she knows,
quiets then.
The wooden porch between them
strewn with tubs, bottles,
drums
seem placed by plan.
They form a wall
that defends from
the inside.
As nights slips in,
the house melts,
is owned by the land
on which it rests.
The man and woman too
dissolve,
contained by the
moment that claims them.
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