The sun powers down in waves,
washes the warm dry shades beneath
the plane tree’s sheltering hands,
splashes the shrivelled dust with
flickering drops of gold.
We sit, god-like, behind the
stage;
the ancient circle waits; open,
clear,
flooded with brightness.
The spotlights hover, angled to
the action;
the music-stands, thin and gaunt,
long-legged,
huddle together like fledgling
birds;
behind, the backdrops, huge and
timeless,
lean together, watching,
uninvolved.
Soon, soon each player will enter
into the sun,
and it will
weaken;
the dusk will creep across
cicadas’ lullabies.
And at the proper time,
too soon,
someone will wheel across the gibbet,
waiting in the wings...
It is unaccountably cold beneath
the plane tree;
we are not gods.
(October,
1986)
