Far off on the island, out of town,
I pedalled on a gravel path, passing by
an old, restored house,
small, simple, familiar in its Venetian style,
the plaster a full red-brown
like the texture of an oil painting,
you could almost taste it
neat against the quiet morning sky
with by it the still green flame of a cypress.
Eternity aside. Mose’s lit bush.
The poet had come across
a miracle like this,
a simple settled light.
But, even he then, had left
and forgotten it.
Going into the straight, absorbing
line of the future, the illusion,
I can’t do anything better
except to go back for an instant
to the fullness of a pastel red-brown plaster
and the fiery, airy green of a cypress
that grabbed the wind with a firm fist
and swayed an instant of eternity
into my heart.