Steven Waling
That Summer
Under a promising moon
I met someone like you on the train.
Who was I that Summer?
The journal mentions the summer rain.
Supine under starlight
a white butterfly comes to rest.
It is quite clear what these distinguished:
things, more solid than we are,
as if the light let go along
trees lining this road, now bare.
This is the climactic scene:
he was climbing up the pulpit steps,
Clonk! Oh the excitement - seven, up and alone!
To think that I will never write that year
Time put an arm around my shoulder -
inside the house it was like gold, a pool -
it was not the reality she would have chosen.
Page(s) 23
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