A Course in Sadness

or: henry's landscape

what is closest passes most quickly
what is farther is slow and lasts

while the train rides the ridgeline
the land travels beyond us, blurred
behind the details of my hand etched
against the glass: the song's flow
behind my words, behind the windows we look beyond—

a rise we inhabit, as clumps of spring grasses
knot against the side of the track
a noisy punctuation, the shuffle-bang wheels,
while the line of the hill dips,
the distance bending long slow notes—

a clutch of trees in green rain
the spark of sun in the marrow that fires
before it melds into the undergrowth,
a hollow sound, sad but clear—

and the horizon's rise and fall
draws the story to your fingers
smoothing then waking
the strings of your guitar
into what is more than grief: not anger but passion—

it doesn't make it happy
but it finds its voice and sings, henry, sings
 

© Neile Graham