LIGHT IN AUGUST

The pattern of leaves on this green
concrete
floor
calls to mind that scene in the forest

where he watches her tracing
the
rings
in the cross-section of the cut tree: here I

was born, there I died. It was just a
moment
for
you, you took no notice. Her eyes move

from the wood to his face, a
swivel
of
magnetism on hidden rails. And she

glides past him through the ancient trees
and
the
heavy drapes of string-wrapped woodwinds.

I remember he seems to stand there
watching
her
move away for a very long time before

he
tries
catching
up.

17 August 1998