Don’t even think, don’t even guess,

Speculate, invent the purpose or errand

 

Of this horse-drawn carriage―

A calesa en route to or from market…

 

From the sugar city of La Carlota

On Negros Island (after the munificent 

 

Mistress of colonial memory, but who 

Remembers?) Mark only the red-spoked 

 

Wheels that convey it on the paved road 

As if on a cushion of air. Maybe to pick up

 

A fare of housewife or lover, to tryst

Or to cook a meal. Oh, I can hear

 

The clip-clop in the dry air, crisply 

Echoing above the fine leaves of the slim

 

Tree on the roadside, which is still almost

A sapling. And the foliage almost spectral,

 

Like wisps of themselves, tremulous 

Like the clouds and mountain on the horizon, 

 

In the mist dispersed by… is it sunset or dawn?

Because now in the absolute stillness, there is 

 

Only the clip-clop of hooves, the crunch

Of pebbles under the red-spoked wheels.

 

 

Marne Kilates

13 January 2022