The road beside the course is all downhill

At almost-dawn; the walk’s a facile, dark

Declension. Amble on enough, the chill

Begins to sculpt the fog a stray dog-bark

 

Has stilled. You know the black greens will be green

Again, when all these clouds now brought to ground

Rise up. Till then, what little can be seen,

Or made, of shapes is only to be found

 

Across the fairway: there against the sky,

A giant backbone rolls its gentle sine

Of grasses. March is when the dragons lie

In dreams, with wreathing breath and undine spine.

 

Out-breathing death, they guard a Grimpen Mire

Tamed for sport. Fog hugs the lower dales

In veils of mist that wait there to aspire,

While all the time, the creature that exhales

 

Them never moves. Still, as that scrolling chine

Profiled by slowly-leeched-out indigo

Defines itself in spurs of spruce and pine,

It comes alive. You can’t help thinking so,

 

I mean, considering the wind that stirs

The green-leaf scales (ash stands here, too)                                   

And needles. Black scales turn to elms and firs

That bristle at the white sky turning blue.

 

Hard to appreciate the climbing back,

The easy stroll down more than work enough

When lazy, fresh from sleep, before the crack

Of dawn. The course expires—one last puff—

 

As you begin your grudging, snail’s ascent.

Here are the coming colors, every tint

That seems assured, what darkness said was meant.

Start trudging; show them you can take the hint.

 

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