Forgetting

He has walked all day with the hills before him
and the distant houses
white and square
against sun-darkened trees.
The sun's disk, on edge,
touches the disk of the world,
which grows rounder as the sun slips down.
He wanted to see that town
in the full light of day, in a beautiful season,
and he is almost there.
But something has changed
in the aspect or the air.
When he looks back he sees
the path dissolving,
the green and dusty sea closing over
what eddies his feet stirred in passing.
He wants to know
by what steps exactly he came here.
He can’t remember the feeling of damp grasses
or how the day warmed and opened.
He has only some sense of ground
traversed, of gravity
overcome, of triumph in approaching
those hills by such and such a time.
And he is almost there,
but the shadows behind spread long fingers and he stands
perplexed, his shadow before him.
Suddenly, more than the place ahead,
he wants what he has been leaving.
He thinks there was a dog
by the gate, yes, and bright chicory
where the road widened,
a tree with remarkable bark,
and more—a distant chimney
with smoke and walkers
going the other way, who raised their hands in greeting—
but then,
 he is not certain about the walkers.