They disrobe beneath a damp cloak of darkness
between us and the stars, between us and the gods
gone on to other tasks, other games to play
to leave us incubating, once again, with another test.
So it begins after years buffeted by weather, like
Jeffers’ stone outpost grinning through clenched teeth
as the sea roared, battering the cliffs at his feet,
the windblown beards of cypress twisted permanently.
They are finally naked now along the creek, limbs
undulating upon the tarnished gold of old clothes
strewn beneath them, reaching for heaven in unison—
the white tangle of sycamores in Dionysian dance
begins as their backdrop of brown slopes germinates
in grays at first, but as their feathered fingertips green
prematurely. No water in the creek, no prolonged
orgiastic celebration—they dress for an early spring.
drycrikjournal 
OK. I had to look up “Jeffers’ stone outpost”. Here’s a link to a good description for others of literary and architectural challenge:
http://www.literarytraveler.com/articles/robinson-jeffers-the-poet-and-stone-mason-of-tor-house/
LikeLike
Thank you, John. Robinson Jeffers has long held me contemplating his hard line and penetrating thought.
LikeLike