By Ryan Vance
A squall of finches and owls or a mountain
insurmountable and sure,
or a prism against the fields,
a slice in the grass that turns the gorse
against itself, all light and terror?
Your smock still sings of hard work,
tart with oil and sweat,
these folds and bulges familiar,
and the bunching of your skirt across your knees
friction in the face
of absent forces.
Under whipped cream and bruises,
the sky finally free to wear
its favourite party dress,
that lemon posset yellow cotton shirt hangs
like nothing else.
And I don’t doubt you have your reasons but even while you wrestle
your wellies reassure:
There’ll be no damp socks hung to dry on the rather large and unexplained alien scaffold tonight.