The taste of persimmon, which is not heard,
Which is not seen, but reimagined by the tongue –
The spicy soul swirls, pushing autumnal spleen away
From the beholder’s eye.
This is the scene with which my Garda Elegy begins –
The characters are ripe and ready for decline,
Soft and defenceless in the face of their own
And of the world’s dégringolade.
Not an instant! But a continuity of stillness,
Here, at the ‘place of guard’, I’m moving outside of history –
A curious effect – the kaki fruit are breathless,
But clear contours quake and lose their significance,
The amber balls like candles in the church,
They ask the passer-by about happiness,
About love, who are we, where are we from and why?
What can I say? I don’ t have answers.
If I could live this life again,
I’d choose to be this kaki tree,
Which is not heard, which is not seen,
A silent question
Enough to not be unanswered,
Enough to push autumnal spleen away
From the beholder’s dull December.