The sifted light of snow across branch and leaf:
west omega, east alpha, north tav, south alef.
I carried on, oblivious to the clues - simply put, a fool.
Idle roomer, breached boarder, one’s a crowd, aloof.
A roman a clef built overnight? I didn’t know to laugh it off.
Or that roads to a rise of are routes to a fall of.
Pilgrim’s progress: the very process designed to baffle,
and I, shuffling in, clinking…. Never over-shout the bailiff.
The horse on our way back champing grass, the dazed foal
beside her. Sowed oats? Settle for a half or do without a loaf.
And on TV, helicopter blades making a blurred, transparent veil
there on the roof. They bowed their heads to its halo, routed but alive.
And once, long weeks – east: tav, west: alef, north: alpha,
south: omega – the hills, not yet (from drought) aleaf.
On Damas St., even pigeons slept in the branches of the ficus and olive.
I didn’t know then, but to speak about time was nearly to speak about love.
first published on Unsplendid
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