Snapshot
At evening, sun boils across
These mountains, makes a show
Of powdered gold and plated brass
That cools to blood, a soft rust glow
Under a crawling green net
Soothing the bronze to shadow.
Or swags of cloud may lift to let
The bleak space briefly speak
From deep inside a freezing skirt
Of acid colours burnt as stark
As winter trees across a rise
Before the fading into dark.
As daylight crumbles I suppose
That to know is to become
In time. Places digest those
Who never did intend a home
Just there. But callers declare
They like the view and click a claim,
Knee on sill, with a camera.
The photo's dropped in my lap.
What I would learn with aching care,
Poor becoming, is a weakling's pap,
The poem grown empty, crass,
An easy acquiring, a snap.
Page(s) 28
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