One day, in the tree house that was just a cushion
nailed between two branches of the fig tree,
you asked me a question and we pondered in silence
until the dog made one of the chickens fly at us
and we fell out.
We forgot the question, or stopped talking about it.
Now, the words don’t matter.
I think of the silence
and sometimes I feel it suddenly throughout a room
like a draught of unusual strength;
it distracts me into hedges when walking,
and stops me mid-bite into an apple.
I think I know now, what could have been said,
and maybe a first step is in this postcard.
The picture on the back is of shoes,
rows of white shoes, shot up close.
They are like cliffs, or waves.
It’s not that they’re being something they’re not;
they’re just being something more.
Originally published in Above Water 2009