The weight of availability
Eos March 4
the heart of things or rather
sky sea river
breath rock earth
night slowing retinal guesswork
clusters of trees, weight of availability.
Eos draws a thin red line
tracing the inner thighs,
prints monotypes on the torso.
Sometimes occult powers
distract you from presence,
seven billion humans somewhere else
allow space for reflection.
The river is steeped in crimson,
reminder of unmarked graves
and all the massacre sites,
a glorious colour bleed
feeding the churn of now
and my trigger finger.
The surface momentarily in balance
until the tide jockeys and the water
flexes insisting it’s alive not glass
and empties or fills the river’s instep,
the body is the reveal.
Watercolour clouds drift blisters of light
splintered by skittering fish
and leaps of faith, magnesium bright.
Helios is sluggish through cloud,
his smooth spectral content ripens
the estuary, but more than half
is in the infrared, wavelengths
the size of a pinhead seen by skin,
a millennia worth of angels.
A Striated Heron trots along the beach
the one doubling as a river bank,
stops, peers over its hunched reflection,
shuffles silhouettes. I can never
catch them bagging anything,
there’s an argument for surveillance.
Back home viewing my handiwork
with a casual flourish of the mouse
nine Black Swans appear flying south.