(after ‘The Lark Ascending’
by Vaughan Williams)
The moment the lark finally vanishes
into the spread green sky of the forest
is the moment you suddenly lift
your bruised arm up, over your body,
as though to show me the wing’s eclipse,
or the wing, or the season of your dream.
And even as your hand lapses silent
onto your chest, and your breath goes
sluggish, I am already watching your feet
prepare their slow first step under the sheet
as the last notes of sunlight fall quiet,
and you do not move again. Oh, my dreamer,
are you a bird reviving in a summer field?
Was it the lark ascending that you heard,
a ghost among its shy-hearted tunes?
Yes. I heard the lark escaping, too.