Rocks commit to the bamboo screen
words commit to the blank page
the emptiness of a shrub
hung with pink limp rags
the heaviness of granite rocks
peering over my shoulder
artificiality: an ant grey at each end
a young maple planted
catches the first rays of sun
swallows belong to the evening
seams of quartz
darker green
creases
country folk
hollows that were eyes
pock-holes nostrils
only a few teeth left
even the crow has two tones
I have my shadow
deeper in the rock
wet hands
further out sounds are the earth to earth
a motorcycle, water dripping down the drain,
dull splats on the paper
a rain that never ceases
with one small sunlit morning
resting calmly on the apex of its infinity
a crown of foolishness, a hangover, a garden,
someone else’s memory
Caution the light
with birdsong in it
the rock opens
and we see hands were here,
wet hands on the rocks
they commit two dripping prints.
– 1 July 2014
