Wolf on hill,

lichen, resin, pine,

old day, smells.

Walking fast,

as morning breaks:

will I miss the lights?

Threshold horizons:

giving metaphors to waters,

our full white moon.

Pointing the pause the cut discloses the clearing.

A white field buzzard

picks a fly from a mule’s eye.

{ a bit done } { a day done}

City street names:

ghosts that cast us as shadows

into their sunsets

Tremulous poplars

Black in winter’s bitter wind:

Mad violinists.

Dark muddy footpaths

Beyond back yards, unleashed dog:

Rabid ravener.

Black hounds chase black crows,

The moon pales silver rice

Paddies: Commotion

Aborigine:

smell the colour of the wind,

walk without a map