It is raining here, and evening,
The water of Mirror Lake still troubled more
by the fountain’s spray than the rain,
though it is a near thing.
The trees and boughs drip heavily
onto the grass and pathways now deserted by all
but myself, a solitary figure shadowing the twilight.
As I cross the lawn and walk upon the empty Grecian stage,
I see, at my feet, chalkmarks on the stone:
Hieroglyphs of unknown origin;
Portents and omens in a foreign hand.
I am far from my native land, yet this has
something of the feel of home:
water’s love for stone and tree,
grey skies vaulting a comfortable heaven.
This land is tamed, less wild than mine,
here Gaia’s slow heart beats more civilized,
yet her majesty marks the same peace and toil.
The patient wearing of man
rubbing soft the harsh edges of time.