(“God does not play dice”, Albert Einstein, 1926)
Evening has shifted to night,
and as bystanders huddle for warmth round pubs
I press hard on pedals
to speed through air full of talk
of myopic referees, chocolate bliss
and public spen…
Red car door flung
grip, blink, BAM
Time blurs. Time cracks /
on shuddered bike by bedspread of sparkling glass.
The driver brings plasters for cuts.
Only later do I wonder
was I fortunate, or unlucky,
or does fate mean
there was no chance involved at all?
I see you. I see your arc of arms,
speed of steps, swerve of hips
depict the measure of your impatience,
zest, your almost-happiness.
I see the Rembrandt touch within
that softly quickened breath,
the hefting of weight from heel to toe,
your honest insistence on depth.
In its subsumed skip, your walk’s
a counterpoint of passion and control;
restless, striving; even as you slow,
when you ache, when you limp.
Free-wheeling down an oak secluded
avenue one February morning,
below a sky that’s dappled calming blue
but clouded like belief,
as air bestows its chill embrace
a woman’s face turns to me
her fragile smile beneath a flighty red hat,
and like a Vermeer painting
where time permits itself to rest
and watch beauty in the everyday,
or like a glow-worm cave, that shimmers from what
you cannot directly see though know must be true,
so too I saw a hint of the halo
of someone in love.