(First published in England in the 1987 Arvon International Poetry Competition judged by Ted Hughes and Seamus Heaney. Second publication, Issue 118 of The Paris Review, New York)

They are my parents.
Both are walking toward me,
she on the left with a mud caked
wooden box in her hand propped
against her, he on the right with
a shovel over his shoulder, balanced
at the end by his hand.

She is looking at me through
owl-like glasses and about to laugh
as if I am just snapping the picture.
He is looking at her, eyes diverted
downward checking out the wooden
box, a look of amusement on his face
as if she has just said something funny.

It is precisely sundown. Shadows
dull all things. They are walking
two tracks of a dirt lane which goes
on behind them, then turns into
the sunset. Next to her is a row of
wooden posts and slack barbed wire
standing in tall golden grass.

The fence trails off behind her then reappears
as a line of telephone poles that shrink into
the distance. Next to him is a dark shadowed
oak tree where years ago I killed birds with
a BB gun then worried just before sleep. Within
the shadows of this tree is an old tractor with
rust replacing green paint.

The ashes from the big house that burned to
the ground, are gone. The old house that replaced
it, made from two garages with a wash room
for a kitchen, is also gone. All that remains
is row upon row of white cotton. Just behind
him through dark leaves is the milk house where
milk was strained, checked for mastitis and cooled.

All that remains of the barn is the cement floor
with the gutter used for scooping a thick mixture
of urine and manure. This is where he beat the cows
with 2x4's and shovels. The stanchions that held
fast the bawling cows' heads that he de-horned with
pruning shears then pour the powdered coagulant
over the stubs that spurted blood are also gone.

Next to the tree are two metallic blue boxes mounted
vertically to a power pole. This is the sole mark
of the present. The bottom box is for starting
and stopping the nearby pump which supplies water
for irrigation. In the top box is a round glass cylinder
that contains the meter which tells the power
company how much of his money is theirs.

They are walking toward me, she with
a white blouse, the tail out and sleeves rolled
mid-way to the elbow, her orange skirt exposing
her white calf and ankle; he with a white shirt,
the tail tucked in and sleeves rolled above the
elbow, the left forearm glistening slightly with
water from turning off an irrigation valve.

The toe of her forward foot is off the ground,
placed precisely in front of the black foot which
has the heel arched high. His left foot is suspended
above ground, the toe pointed outward, the right foot
planted firmly. His levis which house the lower portion
of his bear-like body, are held in place by a leather belt
which at one time he used to whip his four boys.

They are walking away from all this.
His hand is at his side, slightly in front.
It holds a key, rusted and caked with mud.