When you wake with petals strewn at your inner imaginings, you try to live up to the sweet start,
It's a mystery, how the mind leaps from primitive sound to intricate, webbed sentence,
This moss is her island, its dewy green . . .
When the bough breaks and my oak tree heart is joined by an echo,
Burgundy-earth patches on cream, soft as calla lily.
The maple leaf stops them. Its veiny palm invites examination, as peach and pale green cross shades. Autumn does this to maple leaves; scorns their attempts to cling onto their tree of birth, strikes them down, flattens their flame. And then, somebody finds the leaf, finds charm in its crown-like edges, its slight resemblance to thorns.
A solitary heron, silver-grey, his stature great, resides within the river village, old man hunched and scouring.
Tricoloured pebbles, the sand stepping-stones of a shuffling huddle, or shifting land - a clinking crowd at ground.
She assumes her position at the sink, everything greasy from the day's befores. She scrubs at silver insides; the eternal circle from clean to unclean. The water pounds in and she thinks of the river; a rat's tail - just the tail, moving through rushes.