Peter Dale
Landscape
Me peeling away at a loose end of bark,
these silver birches, there a stunted one,
a run of silver paint on cross-grained wood,
and underfoot the usual dumping ground.
That childish hope, when this was more a park,
to peel some silver off and catch the sun
or make a mirror. Never any good.
But here’s a trunk my hands can still surround.
Me peeling away at a loose end still,
watching the darkness grow beneath my hand,
scorched earth, scorched earth, and staring in my face
the old landscape I thought I left at will.
Eyes, eyes that bear in mind this meagre land,
look back — hold me stronger than the place.
Page(s) 15
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