Winter, 2005

Fiona Sampson

Leda At The Lake

A question we have to ask is when she consents to be
There is an axle, it is not his -
Draws a straight line through the circle is the line of gender
her species marks her out or down as the crouched dog baring its jawbone
in a radiance of feathers.
Blue mud under the hedge.
Her blue.
The instant of collision: not then.
Not now she prays. Let it not be now.
In the perfect clarity
leaves falling through trees. White green white.
Afterwards: there is a flickering.
Afterwards in the blue TV
when the story breaks her into completion.
In the midsummer paddock on your back turning
the sky is a wing flung out
over water.
This is inviolable how does she come to accept
beyond the register of fact
how the space gathers her
As if so much
could shield.

All of a sudden the film jerks and spools it is fast
it is very fast Where is the space now
she can roll into roll her body heavy with it?
He bends a neck. Now. It is now
how all the summer garden (you are looking)
how the spandrelled
parasols of cow-parsley where the wood
how they pull this apart
her feathered dazzling flank In the heat of the day
the bees at her crotch
There is a wheel she has it under her arm
when she stops you in the garden
putting her hand out. Now
Never coming to rest whirring
raises a breeze which lifts her long hair.
You put the coffee on the terrace.
You lay the saucers side by side on the tin
you bring the sugar bowl. Now
Smoothing the cloth
to turn
the spoons white brightly
a movement of humming Now
Now Now