this morning

this morning
I saw the sun filtered through trees
in the hour before its light touched
the white walls of my house

watercolour

sky is water

cold inside me
shivering speech
nature’s idioms
chill and muttering
in my blood

precipitations

rain falls
threaded from heaven
a heavy mist on the eyes
rough ropes binding sky
to a promise of weather
no climate can keep

syncope

a rush of blood
from the head
faint-hearted, limp-limbed
more like dead

narrative

there is
a narrative in rock
erosions of history in lines
striated faces at the wild world’s edge
lines seldom spoken
not a word for
anything
alive