Sankar Roy

So much now depends on this night clock     its tick tock
rapid breathing of a needle heart

I confess I have taken his notebook
his flowers pressed between the pages     a muddy field

his white chickens call me before every morning
how to return those asphodels I plucked from his garden?

I hear horses’ hooves drumming toward the horizon
I want to give back this dark field

wildcarrot leaves of the winter grass curling up in the stark
white dignity of the first frost