Departure

--John Haines

The road darkens toward the west,

toward the town,

the sky blown clear of all but the fringes

of lemon light;

still the air will shape to the sight

remembered forms.

The turning leaf falls on the ground

that felt the foot,

the waters murmur of the river

that turns away,

the flood of night harms no sound

of the birds that are going down

on the unseen horizon.

And darker, the final bearing

toward the wings

that weight in gathered cloth for one

who needs no eyes

to see the drifting heartbreak

of the smoky hills.