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.