The Blue Book


Sunset turned the clouds into an arrow
yesterday, crouching on a hillock
by our secret river, as if the whole
sky were silently pointing to a space
between two mountains
where pinkred sounds resound
once we have turned, rising,
past its direct rays
into stilted tense which looped
back to find an eagle
and some strange pigeon
parting from the pointed voice:
one facing South, the other
North. Both going nowhere.

Until that sound, in sacred colour,
shattered one more time the site,
cast instead some old and worthy image,
adequate of our age:
a small murmuration rhyming real music
with a make-believe, prehistoric skeleton
in redgold and hints of yellow
against a blue-turning-black twilight
scattered with other remnants
of a brush wielded
by one and all.
Even the shadows shining bright.

Whatever you speak is
a poem already written
by this-world-at-large.


Up and up

Into freedom