Sport 21: Spring 1998
Denis Welch — Ixat
Denis Welch
Ixat
The world runs backwards: snow melts,
And here it is already last year.
You drop your hand, and the welts
Raised on the child's arm disappear.
A ship's mast, returning, brings news of joy
To the harbour not yet scooped
Out of sea, where your father, a boy,
Runs past women with crinolines hooped
And the dog, curling, no longer stirs
The bones of old excavations.
Slowly, the sun makes its way in reverse
Through the constellations,
Afternoon slips into morning, there is no
Song, no shadow yet on the dew.
You raise your hand, and the taxi, though
Far down the street, comes back to you.