going with Tristan to the wild wood
A long time now I have watched
the horizon. Are you aware that
the line which is land in sky
is also sky in land. And the white glow
just at the edge, that line of meeting
is ripe, as a pear is ripe.
At times—dawn, certainly,
noon sometimes, an afternoon,
or at dusk often—some
quality of light will gather
into ripeness and burst as the pear
devoured dissolves into sweet juice
on the tongue. How is it
that sky and earth do not melt
together, I wonder. How is it
that so perfectly they stand, edge
to edge, and that the path I take
with its edges teased by fronds
of bracken and tall grass
is still a path and not some
endless beckoning into
the dripping dark woods. They do
melt together at night, the land
and the sky; the pear is eaten;
the darkening path beckons.
Published in West