Prognosis

            after Wilhelmina Barns-Graham

pliant as land
folded, eroded by
fault-line & glacier
or labouring hands

fluid as cloud
in a northerly zone
its colour a promise
of sunrise or snow

provisional as sleep
the trust you place
in the curve of a form
on the line of the sheet

Slipknot

say a shape moulds a thought –

say it starts as a curve, barely
perceptible, doming the wave

say the pay-per-view telescope
on your wandering promenade

will, for once, focus at a touch
no storm of salt has clouded the glass

no need to try your other eye
nor squint until the effort hurts

say what the pressing swell resembles
– inkcap? fontanelle? planet?

but no, it’s the crown of a seal
which breaches, approaches

as you drop down to the beach
edge towards the brink

say it's a surprise, but say too
that you felt it was there all along –

this thought, which looks back at you,
briefly inquisitive, until a ripple

tells you it can’t be held