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Date Posted: 11:32:58 07/10/01 Tue
Author: Wendy
Author Host/IP: 208.219.108.137
Subject: Sighting

Sighting…
(of Sally Townsend at Raynham Hall, 1760-1843)



Shadows trace
windows panes on the wall
but not the shape
of a woman moving in-between
the blank quartos of space.

Her body language
could write sorrow
on the plastered page
but she haunts
the glass instead.

Hair and face shine
through the attic window
casting a pale light
over the garden’s breath
accented in English
ivy and hedge.

She watches leaves
toss flirtatious syllables
at the wind
and remembers when
a young man
offered her a poet’s voice.

He spoke to her
of his homeland
and mother’s harp
catching strains of firelight
when she played in the evening
and his boots stood like small andirons
before the hearth.

They were sized for a boy
marching through mud
and wet fields
until he grew old enough
to serve in the King’s army.

Then he wore larger boots
and footsteps touched
the grist of island sand
and felt wind brushing
against leather and tall grass
feathering the shore of Oyster Bay

Near evening,
sun plucked marsh weeds
tucking the song
of sea and birds,
under clear fingernails of light.

Its melody persisted
drifting inland
and settling in corners
of tender concealment;

those of a soldier’s heart
and green shade
bandaging acres of war.

The country side was divided
by split rail fence,
and loyalties
by sharp edges of thought.

She found herself
loving the enemy,

a man who occupied
her father’s house,
and talked to her
of his own
miles across the ocean.

She was young
and drawn to that pause in time
when only dreams matter

and a girl’s smile
seeks refuge
in a gentleman’s glance.

One like his,
long and beautifully drawn
from strings
of kindness falling
over his past

and now hers
as she looks toward
the end of day.

Her soul
in tune with the lawn --
calm and golden.

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