Snowy floodplain near Stagno Lombardo, Lombardy, Italy

           Iceblink

 

             Cold yellow, as of winter; even the silhouette of stocky white

             mulberries—usually might and sharp—looks fuzzy, virtually

 

             rubbed out by the glare. The air sizzles noiselessly, pervades

             the outerwear, invades into the mouth, slips liquid down

 

             the windpipe. And in front of the breadth, of the overflowing energy

             of the glittering sweep, one would want to be the river—streaming

 

             careless through it, not bothered at all, about still—subverter of

             time and disrupter of space. One would nearly miss the uncolored

 

             clouds—shapeless cover, border and detail swallower which

             compacts everything, in so doing annulling it. One instinctively

[seeks

 

             a mark, a scratch in the glow that brings back to time and reinstates

             in space, a sheet anchor. So, between a row of skeletal poplars and

[the

 

              water-grazing flight of crows, at last one yields to diffused light,

[harboring

              the illusion of being able to gather and dominate it by reciting a line

[by

 

              Tranströmer or humming a tune by Mussorgsky. For all one strives

              to have a way with it, the glints can be stolen from the enfolding

[range.

 

  

              

                First published in The Interpreter's House (UK)