It sits there like a photograph,
a still life painted
in the corners of my mind.
Leaning closer, I brush aside the cobwebs
and taste the colours on my fingertips;
remember the smell
of fresh-mown grass on a summer’s evening.
Those were the nights when I would
watch the watercolour sunset
fast-forward into grey mist.
Static.
Adjust my mind, clear the picture –
I step outside.
The night is thick and warm, my skin is pale
in the twilight shadows of an indigo pool.
I break the seal on perfection
making the stars shiver,
sliding beneath the water without a sound.
And the place I remember most,
fragmented by half-formed thoughts,
slips from my hands like a dream
and ripples away
in the non-existent breeze of time
