ABIIT by James Longley

Be content with little,
with what sensible recurrence,
with field, then field, then plane
of numbered plots, delimited,
even the holy sequence unlocking
the branches, elmand vein: enough
for lightning’s find to sink in
generation, enough, content
your every capillary; no
fire had to speak in the sky,
no clouds needed ever
to swallow bird song and jet.
No, lights were brought in
and left in orbits to attend
the great disintegrating refuge
of shadow of wall of range,
and in all a voicing wind
to carry mixed, full gasps
of stillness and good news.