Slack
We rest on the green,
soaking sun, stroked
by the flicker of hawkshadows.
I could beg for a gale,
to watch you vault up its back,
climb its round shoulders,
swoop on the buffeting
or bury yourself like a tossed coin,
a spiral diamond plunging deep
with the snap of new weight,
then lost.
But in this peace,
in this peace, what choice?
I might scratch a racing hover
from a sudden charge,
only to pant as you pass
and silent, resettle.
You press the grass
weightless, unfluttered,
while the hawks rise like vapor.
June ’00
– home –