Ma sarà troppo tardi; ed io me n’andrò zitto
tra gli uomini che non si voltano, col mio segreto.
Montale
I was out in the woods, picking mushrooms,
light in the higher boughs, a year-long
quiet in the shadows, spots of moss
and pea-gall – but nothing to keep:
Orange Peel, Fly Agaric, Dead Man’s Eyes;
no ceps, the puffballs blown, the ground a drift
of beech leaves and broken twigs, my hands so cold
that, when my fingers brushed
the snakeskin, I imagined it alive: the child in me
awakened to the old
forebodings of his tribe.
It must have been discarded months before
yet, though it was paper-thin
and shapeless, there was still
pattern and colour enough to trouble me
with adder, hints of Braille, then sepia,
that made me think of you – I can’t say why;
but walking home empty-handed, I half-believed
that nothing would be there, the house shrugged off
and a gap where the door should have been, where I’d suddenly learn
how long I have lived here alone, col mio segreto.