Monday, March 14, 2005


One standard geometric chariot
has stopped, paused in transit, immobile
in angular repose, nestling atop
a row of poplar trees in thick foliage
three fifths exposed to view, whilst the bottom
unseen, seemingly weightless, rests its ridges
in a cloak of viridescent cotton
wool soft leaves, just forty short yards distant
from her silver form waddling onward,
nose stuck in the grass and oblivious
in the still humid silence to the whorl
above her, swirling low light in rhythmic
crystal perfect colour which trips
across their path.

He sees the seldom lifted
veil slipped revealing the unknowable and stops,
his mind frozen, momentarily awed limpid
by the weird sight, but strangely unshocked
or struck agape in real wonder with
the thing her eyes have not chanced upon; what
his mind has only ever dared to think
exists unknown in fantastical thought.
Ambling headlong straight into the drift
of light, seeking scents to follow and lost
in search of imagined quarry, she sinks
his chance of heading back to the unlocked
gate they entered through several long minutes
ago in night’s last dark breath when his watch
sounded at four, and he motions her by swift
action running down the track, keeping soft
footfalls, heading straight towards the cut-through.

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