3 December 2023

Branch

After Louise Gluck

At some point, there were

many forks in the road.

Now: only the branch

of a branch.

Like the few yellowing

leaves at the edge

of the birch’s canopy,

where the tree curves

improbably upwards.

How many afternoons

spent alone in Cubbon Park,

practicing waiting

as the world rushes by.

The year of your failed

experiments, of his despair.

The year humans elsewhere

were inventing God.

And you thought to yourself:

is this my life now —

this cacophony,

this crumbling and hopeful

city so far from home,

which turn did you take,

at what point in the road,

to conjure this?