Fenland Sketch: 2

This busy air is cold and bright,
rendering the water in the crossing dykes
like a glittering rush of Sharp Blue*.

White clouds with the spirit
of steaming liners sprint above me,
while I, in my car, run this road

with no boxes alongside imprisoning streets,
no brick wall bigotry from some chattering suburb;
no metropolitan clutter, no town crowds, just distance.

The photography is here, but I can't catch it.
But I will; I'll learn to express my cheer
at this absence, this emptiness.

* From Iain M. Banks' The Culture novels, for no good reason.

image: po

Dylan Harris

it's my hands
my difficulty with melancholy
hence the coldness
fear in flight, god
dog sea
push pop

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