Occasional Impressions

Gemini 3

Snow fen

On these drum-tight pegged flats, it does not fall
in blankets rucked around the soil,
soft fleece around the raw veins, no,
but drains away the colourblocks
leaving the pool of hollow bone.
It has called back the bleach, the chalk,
the pulse along a whistling buried wire
below the marsh, the monody,
bat-pitched, of the electric stars.

Sketches of street & hedge
& scribbled farms, the pencilled query notes
against the ledger, smear down steadily
to a grey page, rinsed at last
to its sharp grain again;
an unsuccessful cold & clichéd snap
soaks out, the canvas is tacked down
drum-tight & thirsty for the brush
of some less academic sky.

rdw

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