The sky leeches

The sky leeches

Into the trees

Nothing stays between the lines

A grey wash

A pink moon

A child's painting

By numbers

Nature has rules

To bend

As much as any surrealist

The drip drip drip

Of a melting clock

The accumulation

Of time serving

To bring the past forward

As clear as any bell

A sharp snap

Of clarity

When all seems dull

Shakes me up.

Forgetting

Is something to be remembered

I have an elephant’s memory

For the irrelevant

I forget my place

With no assurance

It is a good thing

To put a face to it

Images of regret

Merge

Bleed,

One into another

Lacking definition

The brain is nothing but

Grey matter

The blotting paper

On the writing desk

Is defaced with senseless

Reflection

A landscape

Distorted by Victorian glass

Leaving an impression

Of creative disorder

An evocation,

Loosely stitched together

Scar tissue.