Masquerade

When we sat, aged 17, by Tundry Pond
and talked and smoked, there was
a stillness; enveloping leaves;
nature seemed to open, briefly
the edges of things transparent
brittle as glass,
as focus sharpening in a camera
and I realised that perhaps there was
something else behind the world.

A car sighed through the far-off A-road
and with that gentlest of noises
the pattern fell apart
I swear the suburbs
were gathering us in like a parent
but we clutched our proof
through swaying heads of corn
the reiteration of our nowhere-ness
struck like a bell
neither in the world
nor quite out of it
and we knew:
we are NOT here
this is NOT now
I am NOT me.

it was a mystery
which we both shared
perhaps only I remember it now.