Poetry
Porter, Anne
Anne Porter Farmyard by Moonlight There must be a farmer asleep under the eaves Filling his room with the surf-like sound of his breathing. He takes deep draught of rest. Gathering all of it in...
...And out of your hands and eyes which now are dust...
...Below the torn bright edges of a thatch of cloud A small moon watches, who has been appointed To guard this human sleep...
...Gathering all of it in before the morning...
...His large weathered hands have fallen open And in a patch of moonlight on the floor His heavy wooden shoes arc resting too...
...Over a wheelbarrow holding a few sticks A glint of water left by the last rain A thin black sheepdog mysteriously awake And a slatted gate that answers her with its shadow...
...She offers her colorless radiance To the dark clumsy beast-like presences Of the stone farmhouse and the thick stone walls...
...and eyes which now are dust...
...And sheds her light Over the lean-to and the ladder...
...You saved it for us out of that warm life Which God has hidden somewhere...
...Walt Whitman honored you, Jean-Franqois Millet, He said you could read the gospel of the earth...
...And I thank you myself For giving me what no one else could give me, This farm that in Norman Gruchy a hundred years ago Lay hushed under the moon...
Vol. 115 • May 1988 • No. 10
