(On a painting by David Park)
Unreachable. Beyond the glancing moment
when titanium scrapes handlebars
and pinwheels fly against the white cement,
we hear the echoed call. We look for cars
and find the summer’s end, and summer’s race.
A scramble at the rail that bars abstraction
from a track of ochre clay. A face
and hands, a formal portrait in refraction
caught in an aside. A reverie.
One instant in the long burn of the sun
recalled to orchestrate the harmony
of twilight on an archetype of fun.
An image we regard as an ideal.
A flashpoint in the spinning of the wheel.