FOLDS Copyright © 2009 James Knox Whittet

The subsidence of mounds of leaves
that fold over in layers as they burn
when dusk shortens the drive to the castle
lighting oblongs on the river that folds
lines of smudged silver over the weir.

Apples folded in yesterday's news;
waxed skin printed with the lives of others:
all those traumas transmuted into scent
to fill the attic, its rafters articulating rain
which folds with flecks down drains.

Those pressed folds of sheets on hospital beds
starched by sunlight through wide windows
where emptied cars wait out afternoons in squares,
bordered by marigolds, liveried by dust
that falls in folds over spaced kerb stones.

The folds of soil as it descends on graves
when the green canvas, drawn in with strings of frost,
is folded back to reveal the opening below us;
our feet loosening the knots of sawn boards
diagramed with the folds of their grain.

Those folds of light when mist lifts up from lochs
like vinegared windows rained with sea;
the folds of water pushed aside by oars
with descended swans' wings drawn
back and folded in their resting place.