Promethius in Alpine Landscape at Dusk

Seconds: ragged breaths:
puffs of smoke in the cold.
The air is bitter.

Evening shadows stretch
the minutes thin, and thinner.
Clouds pass. I am old.

I have counted sheep.
I have sung the Iliad
backwards and forwards

but I never sleep –
morning will descend to eat –
I have often shrieked.


a tired wetland sleeps –
but inscrutable herons
have not given up

hunting for what was
lost – bright eyed as madmen,
quiet as rushes,

stooping now and then
to check behind the grasses.
I hope they find it.