From Moyview

From Moyview

From Moyview

Shadows graze the small island
and the small heads of horses
bending into the grassy slope;
browns perforated by browns
and loose camouflage
of oystershell and stone.

Horse and shadow move
the way wind and lightfall
come together and spill apart;
these hills are solitary, ink-flushed:
the sky’s sheet ruddy with thumb-
prints of blood-orange and edelweiss.

  *

Sun-flames crumble the laneway,
cinder grey ochres swift
and swarm and easily die out.

The river is stilled, careful to cast
no shadow; mooncalm and soundless
as underwater stone.

  *

The stream is almost
hidden by wood; wind-tattered
pages of a book.

And in its sorrow
it sheds it tears.
Night is an old song.

  *

The fire in Scurmore blows sideways.
Splintered by rain, fistfuls of blue
alight to lapse midair, unsodden
cloudbanks obscure the moon,
it’s star-hazed and damp as smoke.

The gentle herd of beasts
that were here an hour ago
has moved cautiously to the river’s bank.
I sense their quiet
beyond the fire that teems
and move to drink where they drink.

  *

December fields skirl seeds,
pewter and glass kinds. Frost tips
the mountains cap and foot.

Days pass without a single trace
of blue; there are salmon dreaming
deep beneath the Moy.