At the bus stop

This morning,

I reach into the dedicated bag

And find I have packed wrongly,

Morning hands grabbing all in the wake from

Bedroom gown, to front door

And in my hand I find

Not a mask,

But an apple.

I of course, curse,

Then laughing I hold it up to, and

In front of, my mouth

To look like Magritte’s

Le fils de l’homme ;

A leafed world held in its orbit around my face.

The bus goes past –

I breathe in orchards

I breathe the speech of hives,

The tang of memory.

I breathe in tart green evocation

From the fruit

To the branch

To the bark

To the loam

To the life.

Dan Belton

14th February 2020