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William Matthews - A Roadside Near Ithaca
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Here we picked wild strawberries, 
though in my memory we`re neither here 
nor missing. Or I`d scuff out 
by myself at dusk, proud 
to be lonely. Now everything`s 
in bloom along the road at once: 
tansy mustard, sow thistle, 
fescue, burdock, soapwort, 
the mailbox-high day lilies, 
splurges of chicory with thin, 
ragged, sky-blue flowers. 
Or they`re one blue the sky 
can be, and always, not 
varium et mutabile semper, 
restless forever. In memory, 
though memory eats its banks 
like any river, you can carry 
by constant revision 
some loved thing: a stalk of mullein 
shaped like a what`s-the-word-for 
a tower of terraced bells, that`s it, 
a carillon! A carillon ringing 
its mute changes of pollen into a past 
we must be about to enter, 
the road`s so stained by the yellow 
light (same yellow as the tiny 
mullein flowers) we shared 
when we were imminent.
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