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You must hang a door before you can close it

I seem to be the only moving thing:
even the sun seems constant.
The breeze enters my worksite steadily
and perfumed:
not with the brackish loaded odours of autumn
but with springlike lightness.

While the cattle recline,
relishing warmth, shade and light airs
like outdoor opera fans in deckchairs,
I caulk, and paint,
filling cracks, finishing
By day’s end I want a statement,
not the incremental erosion of the mountainous task
that has burdened me all summer,
but a statement of achievement.
So I hang the door,
and knocking off,
close it.
Closed door

To find the cattle handing the evening
a standing ovation
as the grassland catches fire
in low red sunlight,

Curtain call
and the big stag roars
as the Nog and I
take to the hill
before dark.

Looking back

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