From a certain angle
atop that mill’s chimney
or from those clouds
high-stepping, you might
see a mask that smiles
with joy of its strength
on something sublime,
like crazy-paving through
a backyard being a metaphor
for a path to a heart,
marching louder
in the past, now hiding
behind a caterpillar’s scuttle
but evident still. Or there
might instead be a face,
resplendent in resignation
after forging a mountain’s
acquaintance, a sensitive face,
and you might see
an admixture of the eyes’
refusal to settle as to colour
plus an intent and rueful
foreknowledge.
You might see a repose
in the admixture
of the waters of the blood
and, as at the side
of a Renaissance portrait,
you might know a garden
coyly half-hidden,
with a yellow rose within,
fire-hot petals as sensory
organs almost, trembling
with ideas capillaried
and finding the torques, applied
to fold the tiniest ripples:
a smile, her laughter, a simple egg
from a soothing hand
like the smooth white
of the morning, with birdsong
or squabble of crows,
with lawns of silvered grass
and gentle admonitions,
the placid guardianship
of the sun-washed roofs,
drowsing, waking, over there.
