Slowing Down (I)
(after Seamus Heaney)
Keep the sun ahead of you, always the pursuer,
to where rocks and green collide recklessly,
and wind is substantial, an almost living thing,
the light and the ocean, in the dance of shortening days,
tearing, biting away at the season,
where stones are marble-polished from years at sea,
and further in, the lake moves with translucence,
where swans glide, uncovering the water in flashes.
They rear up and flap to protest the animal wind,
necks curling, uncurling, calligraphy S’s,
and thrusting underwater, where mud-bound frogs are not safe.
Even with your camera, that most imperfect eye, you will not capture this.
You are some place in-between, where time is on holiday,
and everything comes uninterrupted, not caring whether you understand,
and the wind rocks you, as though to tease the child in you,
and creaks your rusty hinges into service.