5


Green around that water
& light in it: stop or
the poem too descends into mist.
It was – was it not? – out
of that wrench whence desire
was lost, becoming our salvation in the brisk glow
of the vehicle's descent. And in the park too?
Steam rises as Our Lord shoves in & ducks
escape, He debouches into the dark liquid.
The mist was not words but a scum, a scrabble
of dead fish among the little sticks.
The brown water stained everywhere. After
the event was lost, the garden locked
up forever. It had not been very happy.
As it vanished the green came back
& the sky opened out. Where
are you asked the blue? Where
are you?