Portrait

Somewhere in the old trees’ green shadow 

A single straight and twisted branch 

Nods whitely like a baton, becoming 

Something separate, pointing meaningfully 

At nothing visible. Nothing of this world 

Is stirring there in silence, and silhouettes 

Of leaves lie weightless on its supple neck. 

The world is parabolic in its bright-black eye, 

Curves, becomes an infinite pattern, and 

From the gentle arms of mist a smooth foot 

Rises, pauses, sense of being seen 

Thrills along its flanks – a sudden flinch, 

The baton tilts aside and down the foot falls: 

Impossible ankle, stone locked into stone.

The invisible creature breaks like air 

Into the trees’ dark fingerprints 

Disturbing only pools of mist that whirl 

And settle back too soon between mossed rocks 

Mossed roots. The scene freezes. Foreground 

Draws into dull focus and a heart 

Is taken off into the growing dusk.