He saw a blue light entering his heart
coming from a man he couldn’t see
but knew was standing in the stars above
the playing field behind his house. The light
came like a curl of candle smoke and lit
a cooking-apple tree inside his head
where he’d built a den and brought flowers
in a broken mug without its handle.
He could see the usual things – the laurel hedge,
the path that marked the border of his world –
but no river murmured powerful thoughts,
no wind of meaning blew among the stars,
no nature’s heart beat full against his own,
just apple branches lit up in the dark.