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


Blogger C.J. Duffy said...

Oh my stars what a lovely poem. Such detail.

11:19 AM  
Blogger Sue hardy-Dawson said...

Thank-you CJ and so nice to hear from you.

2:36 PM  
Blogger Roger Stevens said...

Lovely Poem.

9:55 PM  
Blogger Russell Ragsdale said...

The intimacy of the experience is directly connected to the readers senses. We are with you on this all the way! This is a fabulous experience sometimes refered to as a poem. Thanks Sue.

4:46 AM  
Blogger Sue hardy-Dawson said...

Thanks Roger
and Russel I wrote this last summer after seeing a whole kingfisher family, Mark had seen them many times but it was my first and truly special

2:14 PM  

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