THE SUNDIAL

A house in ruins. On holed-out walls the moss

is creeping ravenous

and lichen hordes of infestation bask.

In the yard bindweed hustles

and nettles stand a-jungled. The poisoned well

is for the rats to drink.

A cankered apple tree, half lightning-felled,

strains, of past blooms to think.

On clear days come the whistles

as linnets rummage. On sun-glowing days

the gable-end sundial arc revives,

and on it carefree jolly flits and jives

time’s shadow

reciting skyward in stern righteous gloom:

Sine sole nihil sum.

For all is but a mask.