Approaching Dusk

Approaching dusk the shadows danced
among and beyond themselves
and because it was Flanders
somewhere there was a ringing bell.
He could imagine how, beyond his window,
shadows approached then consumed the light,
how there would be those who would watch
and those who would not. Cyclists went by,
one had a light, one had not,
the clock seemed to miss every second beat.
Everything was possible, ambition, detachment,
both could be perfected in the instant of choosing,
the one would equal or cancel the other.
Yes, night was sacred, to those who believed
and to those who did not. Poetry?
that was the voice which did not interfere
with how each thing spoke for itself

 

Navigations

And there is this:

how we took the wrong road and ended up in the mountains
on a track
barely wide enough for our rented car; where we stopped
and saw
the valley we otherwise would have missed and were
grateful for that
as if our wrong turn had led to a destined rightness as we
sat on the stones
on the side of the track to view it all the better. Such as this
remains
active and glowing when much else fades –as if everything
was a sign
to be decoded according to the signals of the day. As if
our 'mistake'
was an older language we were returning to –a wisdom
(if you will)
to be lived through like alchemy. And yet as we sat there
warm in the sun,
viewing the valley, we gave no thought to language or interpretation;
it was enough
that we were there; it was enough that its accuracy was what
it was.
We delighted in that. We took it all in and made ready
to carry on–
not by maps but by following the road where it led,
trusting to it
in a surety more full than our own; a method we were learning
to go by
as we went in wonderment at the language we then needed
for the navigations of arrival.

 

Copyright © Martin Burke, 2003