Ce n’est pas un masque
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