The wall of mountains.
Solid, stilled waves.
They stand out, crystal clear
in the early autumn sun,
you can think of a well-settled
widespread Buddha sitting,
the horizon corralled with his limbs and sinews.
A wall thick with the touches
of hanging oaks and copper beeches.
You feel what has always been in between
the blotches and shots of time,
the clamours, the hush, the forgetfulness.
But I’ve always crossed the road
with a smile from their eyes
that do not tower but descend
and bathe in the light.
The illusion of a streaming world,
in the lines of a streaming Buddha’s gaze,
to take solidity and weight
and get to a halt in quiet support.
I hang on then on the cliff’s teeth
in coppery brightness,
over the great illusion
of my sprawled plain.
This armchair is solid,
soft only on the surface,
it sustains you perfectly, you know,
thoughts trimmed into a steady sailing.
It’s hard to leave
after you have touched, just sitting,
such a certainty, your dog nesting
on your legs, her curved back adhering
to the crook of your arm, her breath
surfing on your skin, a gentle snoring
where skies and plains run,
the long ears sprawled
on your lap like a shawl.
Settled you are at last
to the eyes of your own roots.
Sheltered in between
gravity and the coming stars.
Davide Trame is an Italian teacher of English, born and living