Poem to Be Thrown over the Wall

I have dragged it through the deserted harvests, Brown for centuries, the wood of the windmills Crumbling in my hands, across the frozen river,

Still scuffed with shoes, the last frost fair empty, Brown tents sagging on the ice, ice-fishing holes Scabbed over, rowboats crusted in the icy sedges.

I have dragged it through all the winter paintings, Past the sinking wagons, the abandoned ships, And have come to the wall, and I have grown old.

Teacher said this is how endings should be— A violent toss over the wall. What is over There? I asked her, once, at the beginning,

As she shelled peas and the red poppies nodded Beside her full skirts. She was sitting in a chair In the sun, leaning up against the white clay

Of her cottage. Well, she said, there will be This, and went on with the peas, and we listened To them dropping in the empty bucket.

It was the last time I saw her, and I walked Away through the sweet hay, the plump peasants Asleep in their work clothes and scattered through

The field of afternoon sun. The ripe pears fallen To the golden grass and in the distance the monks Bathed in their small pond. I have been a traveler

Through the ancient paintings. It was the last time I saw her, green as leeks they say her eyes were In those early pictures. I have come to the wall.

There will be this. Kneeling while the bells peal. Now snow. Teacher, if some day you hear a thump Upon your grave, know that I have thrown it.