In loving memory of a lost friend
After Marc Chagall’s Above the Town (1915)
Silently, cloudlessly, we fly
swimming, legs and arms over
roofs and fields and streetlamps.
We skate over and above a sky
of white, our breath trailing behind us,
around the leaves and their small voices,
like notes of a fiddle.
Oh how – how do you do
it, without falling or slipping
or landing on a green roof
and bruising it blue? No one asks,
but everyone wonders. They all
look into the sky canvas and squint,
and inwardly sigh all day, all night.
It is a dream which only you and I see.
And nobody else.
And nobody else.
And nobody else.
And nobody else.
