Martin Langford, ‘Caravan Park’
Its arrival, as always, unnoticed, longing builds
out of the ether – Saturday, mid-afternoon.
Blackbutts and paperbarks climb through the light
that defines them. Or lean to the perfect reflections
of trunks in dark pools.
Eaten by tristesse –
inconsummate story – the people seem less real
than these trees: vanquished by metaphor –
wraiths, dreaming rank, dreaming luck. Someone
plays loud, tinny rhinestone. Yearning
and grief rise to climaxes, yearning and grief.
But make no impression on mirror-recessions
of swamp oak. Nowhere to go but the next song.
Nowhere to finish but new absence, over again.
Lack’s broken record fades seamlessly
out through the trees which are neither themselves
nor like anything else.