Protocols of light and water, March 17

My camera often locates impressionism here
on the immateriality of breeze blown reflections
but the blanched trees are narrowing apertures
and available light magnetises the spider webs.

When a sky sinks to float in the shallows
earth forgets the vibration of colour
and returns to some original state,
some kind of damp cloudy subtraction


from before the invention of mortality,
before the idiocy of black and white,
before the logic of desire,
before molecular transparency blurs.


The waterbirds are quiet, sound is suffocated,
a blank page, the enigma of one dimension
watermarked with islands until the fog burns off
and sunlight restores strength to the world.