Michael H. Levin: Poems and Prose
A TABLE OF GREENFIELDS
Two thousand years of careful
tended fields roll back below:
green rectangles, rimmed
tilled horizon, flat as the
surface of a silver serving
tray. Stone spires flit by,
threaded by slow blue streams.
I sense what it means, becoming
civil: to soar and then decline, each
with its price. The old betrayals
and defeats rise up – grey
Tintagel and Guinevere,
blond Harald’s loss, grim foreign
forces come ashore. Remains
of empire swept behind a
crumbled island wall. They’re crops
now, quilted and coolly outlined by
a sinking teatime sun.
As stars revolve each fractured soul
(they say) reclaims its place.
In that ripe time may we be
young again and stride hedged walks
along the tapestry beneath,
resume our early married games
reciting nonsense rhymes
in pillowed ease.
Our plane beeps twice, descends.
The seat backs straighten.
We prepare to land.
Version first published in The Federal Poet, Vol.LXXVI, No. 1 (Spring 2020)