The day is a canvas stretched over pockets
of darkness. My brush descends on a wire
pale meadows; brown veins of water; clouds blossom
in a duck plume sky. He darts electric
from weed banks. Still: preens saffron feathers in
midnight jewels. My brush takes up black; around
stars of light in his eye. Caught in a blur
ghost colours floating on vermillion
over still waters; changing with the fingers
of shadows: dusk. I feel my bones against
hard stones. The grit of warm soil beneath my
palms. Awake I take this moment, take up
the last bright flax of twigs sighing, then hold
tight a dream of it; down the darkened road