Folk Song

Folks have all come home from market

But my poem has not come back

It was seen drunk

Pacing heavy-heartedly

With a golden mouth harp in hand

Under eaves of a house

Near a crossroads at dusk

Sheep have come down from the hillside

But my poem has not come back

The lead ram caught sight of it

As the sun edged downward

It was watching the bleeding hills

It was past the point of weeping

Grieving to itself

The neighbors are all asleep

But my poem has not come home

I sit at the gate to watch for it

How could I forget such a night?!