Sixteenth of September

after René Magritte

The oak tree marks the mid-point
of my run. There and back.
A collector and dispenser
of breath, branches clustered
like alveoli
against the autumn grey.

The relief of tagging,
turning and not looking back.

So I never witness the leaves
parting to reveal a nascent moon,
this mere sliver of a thing,
cradled and fattened with light,
later to be craned
into a meaningless sky.

Maurice Devitt

Andrew Wells