/ Brushstrokes



Is it ploughed field, or scrubby heath?
Dogs snuffle on the rust-coloured earth,
and far beyond, among reds and ochres,
the bow falls where it was meant to fall,
Heaven-sent, on the church-tower
pointing upward, a solitary finger.
Pigment stipples in sky’s rainbow-tints,
blue-caverning, pink-billowing…
and there above (but partly of) the ground,
white, insubstantial as vapours,
the cerements mount in cloud, as if hill-built,
a celestial city. Where does the horizon end?
Blazing outside the pool of darkness
two worlds in mighty opposition meet and blend.


For the next poem in this sequence, click here

Share this