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.

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