So that the fuchsia running wild—an anarchic thing of darkness
at the bottom of the garden—won’t cast its smothering shadow
on the young myrtle we put down two summers ago in memory
of your father and mother, I hacked it back a bit, so now the light
of day in sun or shower lights up each green and creamyellow
leaf of the bush we behold from the cottage door each
time we cross this weathering threshold. And though it’s hard
for me to see anything beyond what these eyes can grasp on
sight, yet when the sun snags a pale leaf, igniting it, I may still
snatch at something the way you’d fumble at any diminishing
dream image that was all scent and presence, seeking the face,
yet seeing only the half-known as it turns away and vanishes
into morning haze, but snatching at it anyway so some quick
bright thing might breathe back into being there and I could
believe again in that irrational inhabited space astonishing the
brickwork, and act on it, making a perfectly useless gesture that
makes in spite of itself sense and dresses the wound, so you can
see—if for no more than a moment—that nothing you see is not
to be believed in.