Glimpsed among pines,
an absence marked.
Bucket of orange light
and a scatter
of ferries clearing the bay:
call that a city. Pines
tossing the breeze
from branch to branch,
pool of brown water,
whim of a parallax
view cancelling far
chimneys and traffic,
all that is not pines,
trees you can’t
see the trees for.
City, wheedling child
in search of attention,
too brash to humour:
whispering pines,
too furtive to miss;
trunks tending
to earthward, already
asleep standing up.
Pine forest, butt
of old needles, trampers’
prints and branches
snapped back
into place behind us;
curtain after curtain
parted in search of
no stage but
a way among trees,
the city somewhere
below, our steps
tracing a path
and leaving no trace.