He is looking
Far beyond me
Beyond the time
And space that holds him
Contained by concrete
In his gaze
I sense he remembers
Something he can no longer see
Like the way
His African mate
Held their young
On her broad back
As she ambled away
From the babbling tourists
Or the bitter taste
Of bamboo sprouts
So dense and lush
Upon his primordial tongue
For a second
He looks through me
As if I were
A familiar painting
Hed grown accustomed
To viewing
As if I were a mirage
He had once run to
And found to be empty
As if I were
A mere shape or smudge
On his vista
Of possibility
He sits complacent
And unamused
Like a giant Buddha
Staring out
With blank acceptance
At the irrational world

Donald McLeod
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