A cold wind from the August ranges.
Seen from here exactly
the Brindabellas seem to join
the Library’s line of Grecian columns —
as suddenly it’s clear
the way this whole day fits together,
water, wind and sky;
the flags just one more horizontal
among so many others;
the midday sun an etching tool
hardening the edges.
Why is it now I think of Browning,
Tennyson and Arnold,
those distant, quasi-mythical,
bewhiskered nineteenth century greats,
their lengthy, leather-bound “Collecteds”
patient there across the lake?
The weather’s made me understand,
as never quite before,
the way they would have felt this too.
I almost turn to greet them,
gazing over choppy water,
the wind up hard against their faces,
no less alive than I.