dans une petite silhouette

Over the stile,
under a budding canopy
(not looking up).
Turn inward,
eyes spun 180o.

Order, categorise,
wrench into some semblance
of a euclidean plane –
‘Year to view,
UK holidays marked’.
Marked with spilled red ink.

Out in the open,
exposed on the heath
(‘this blasted heath’),
some mist clears – ha! Some.
You’d scream
but the birds would hear.

The sky’s a pale shade
neither blue nor grey.
You’ll move on
(and on and on).
There’ll be joy,
and then death, imminently.

There’s plane trails overhead,
a call to home –
Too soon, of course.
The birds seem to laugh
(a scream escaped, it seems)
as you climb the stile again.

Perhaps, some day,
blue and grey
and bright spilled red
will come all together
and fit some fitting epitaph.

…a poem by Ceri



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