All life hangs
between yellow and green
pylons of light
At the umber edges of the afternoon
a dog sleeps with pricked ears –
in its road-kill pose
Scraps of cumulus
float seawards to dissolution
their slate underbellies carry the sun –
so close a forefinger and thumb
could pluck it from its furnace
I’ve abandoned this poem
to watch a kite weighted
by a flower pot
inhale and exhale
in a protest of
orange and magenta
plumage
As birds with names
I still don’t know
turn shrubbery to song —
into exquisite impermanence.