Sometimes I would climb to the top Of a pine
And sit there for a while
Ecstatic like an angel or
An elemental.
There was also a ruinous old
Motorbike with its idle engine
Lying there way beyond repair
Except in my imagination.
And a stripling apple tree
Which we left unplucked
Because of its small bitter apples.
We played in the sweet meadow
And the shades for hours
Our minds lost to imagination
Slow and ravenous
Our senses sharp as needles.
In the sacred gloom I survived
Cautious alive.
A strange creature
Slowly I moved
As if stalking something in fear:
The ghost of my solitude.