You never tire of the sky,
caught within the frame and sash,
spun sugar, your tongue can almost taste
before it melts away.
You bask in brushstrokes
where white fire congeals
into shaggy buffalo and swans.
Mornings are pale
to match the tint of these four walls
and you imagine you’re afloat
in a bedroom built of sky.
We wheel you through floral gardens,
but your camera’s pointed up.
Your album all blue and white.
When lightning ruptures mackerel sky
you can not turn away
but watch as spears of wet
glance off the glass.
You plunge with them
layer by layer, the dark.
Visitors carry the wind
wafting out of pockets.
They are a jumble of colour and chatter.
But your eyes slide to the crimped striations of grey.
In the mirrored black, tonight,
lie a few pricks of light and the thin moon
of your pillowed cheek