‘cross one hundred years of fields
A nipple-pink horizon grows
On the edge of the great white lie
A blood-red centre bursting ‘bove the round
The timeless game of hide and seek
Drawing at my eyes to peek
Blue
The sky becomes
As I cave
And stare
And aware of it, the centre explodes o’er the everything
With deep yellow warmth
Weather and lace
In place
Of the truth.
This January morn’ at 50 below
‘cross one hundred years of fields
Living on the edge of the great white lie
I succumb again so typically
To the allure of the nipple-pink horizon.
