Three poems

By Douglas Thornton

The Approach

In a closed valley

Walking to the south;

Loud wind in the air

Above, every once

In a while a gust,

A rock that tumbles,

The mountain ages.

Though a presence hides

In recollection,

The lofty rock-face

Watches you. Just like

What is seen is not

Where you go, and where

You go is not who

You are, who you are

Is not what you see,

And there is no end

Just changing faces,

Helpless to forget.

But each time you look

Back on the rock-face

And then wonder what

Remains, the image

That renders all life

Consequential knows

No more what it means

To have importance.

The Mushroom-Hunter

To leave something is to find

it again, never

in the place where it resides.

It always comes back

to us, even a foolish,

or a timely friend,

sees the sum of its passing

in our eyes.

The tops

of trees in the floating mist;

complacent sunlight

on the hill-side route; beyond

this, the singular

untraceable flight of birds

that have lingered near

a water so mirror-like.

Their reality

if left untold, prophetic—

But if it finds you,

you might not even notice.

Day-Keepers

We pass in a circle of small

extent like many here before

a part of common ground;

we, the magical ones,

no longer tragic, descendants

unafraid, not yet resembling

ourselves, or the dangers

we create. Near the wolves

with howling call, upon the shores

of lakes where gentle waves distend,

with bending trees where larks

can draw a fabled breath

to sing the sounds of men, unknown

to fascination, we emerge

to greet our kin. And though

their presence gently calls

to us whenever it is dark,

or the earth a long time silent

has hidden in their hearts

an utterance of truth

that seems to smile at misfortune,

there is the vestige of a charm

that was denied them, still

seen as it goes away,

and in going, has reappeared

within the realm of sight.

The rain,

once the light has restored

its nature to the leaves,

forgets the joy of its burden

to leave the rest of us in peace;

but for some, are rain-drops

hard to see in the clouds,

nor clouds disclosed in the rivers.

Douglas Thornton is an English teacher and poet living in France. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in North Dakota Quarterly, ANTAE, and Midwest Zen. He maintains a digital archive of his work at www.fromapoet.com