Mild morning. No rain. No fog. A robin and a wren measuring
time with their twinned ticking. Sycamore leaves an overhang
of dark green. Sky the luminous greywhite of powdered limestone,
but transparent-opaque as alabaster. Shapes of small stones
on the gravel drive, each at an angle to its companions; lines of
something like shadow lying between them, zigzags of dark
tying their brights together. We’ve lain like that: between
limbs where they’re touching—dividing skin from skin—this line
of shadow, what painters see and settle their still lifes by, each
object a world to itself. Which is why we go into each other—
with tongues and fingers, mouth to mouth, part into part—as if
to erase the line between any two in the world, even bodies
startled for fleet moments into being each other, as blind, involuntary
and dispersed as a breeze among sycamore leaves. (So is the sound
I hear leaves, breeze, both, neither, or some third thing—nameless
and short-lived, engaged to change?) Last night, a clean half-moon
in a dust-blue polished sky, the tide-pools at Omey a gleamy rose.
But driving home through patches of ground fog, on the border
where sea had eaten by angular degrees into land, was to pass
from clarity to blindness back to clear sight again, hedges a loom
of green and scarlet, the creamy surf of meadowsweet. Hands
gripped the wheel, eyes peering to see the way ahead in a muddle-
mesh of landmarks and mist—light leaping, a wild thing, in the dark.