If I switch off the light
I would see him out in the yard,
tending a fire by the hedge,
raking the windfalls and leaves
from a different year,
a ghost in his smoke-coloured shirt
with his back to the house,
my double, from his looks: same age, same build,
the same clenched rage in his arms,
the same bright fear,
and I would be with him, looking at the dark,
but missing what he sees, or thinks he sees:
the sudden night, the blur of wind and rain,
the shadow in the woods that matched him
with nothing that is, and the nothing that is not there.
John Burnside, The Myth of the Twin, Cape Poetry, 1994
Sem comentários:
Enviar um comentário