Icarus Agricolus
by J.B. Mulligan
Darking, tea-steeped sky, gustery
Deeds and dreams have moulted
Would he think of the hills of the clouds?
October wind, moist with suggestion,
questions that the trees behind the house
discuss, answers debated and rejected
like leaves. What have we done?
What remains of it? For we are gone.
into habit and small knowledge,
wing-stilled experience pinned, under glass.
Icarus, had he lived,
would have taken up farming,
watching the sun on the hood of his tractor.
Remember riding the breath of God?
Or would the rich and stubborn earth,
the stench of dung, the scent of bruised green leaves,
be precious, more than memory of light?
Shoulders raw from ploughing, who can be sure?
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