Estuarine
Flickering leaf-light, carolled on a red wall,
as the cat sleeps on and on, the sun rises slowly.
The coolness of a sigh warming to the thought
of a walk to the estuary of the night, to
watch the tide turn in favour of what is
next on the menu of time’s feast.
Keep ajar the door between two minds,
two thoughts that crutch each other up the hills;
close enough, just, for the mysteries
to be pulled long, and fresh enough to spin into
the weave of another thought that was a
pattern not finished without two needles
clattering against each other’s colour; each other as
apposite as the ripples from a thrown pebble that
sail out and down to nothing in dawn’s thin light.
A sigh that it might not, is not welcome.
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