The Sunny Meadow

There’s a dark corner
Of the broad meadow
Gold from afternoon
Surfeit of sunlight.

A strong wind kicks up.
The touch-typing stops
Then starts up again.
How soon will this be

Over? Forever?
How soon will this stop?
Depends how sweeping
You think that this is.

The shadow moving
Through the broad meadow—
That won’t stop moving.
Those are people there.

The refugee years
Are just beginning.
Billions will wander,
On foot and by boat—

Billions, not millions,
One shadow. And if
You’re not one of them,
You may well be locked

And loaded to stop
Them from wandering
Too close to your world.
Or you may have made

The choice, or may think
You’ve chosen, to lie low
In the bright meadow,
Far from the shadows.

Good luck to you there.
This beginning-end
Of a shattered age
In an afternoon

Of windy breezes
Near to the graveyard
That is the meadow,
The broad, bright meadow.

Two neighbors chit-chat
About auroras,
The recent comet,
Darkness in the grass,

Since it comforts them
A little to talk
About what’s isn’t
Controlled by humans—

Odd as that may be
For the descendants
Of dreams sweeping through
Broad sunny meadows.