Midnight sulked in its chamber, watching the witchlights
Out on the bay, strands of unborn thoughts
Flaring and dying as we all do.
He saw a comet some days before
The arc of it scored the sky; as if it remembered
Something he regretted, green as velvet
Soaked in oak moss, sullen as silver
Chrism of this earth.
If this is living, how is it so easy
To scry the other world?
Wrapped in laurel
Soaked in myrrh
Bitter as oud.
I sniff at the colours
My hands clasp brushes, pens
It is a good embrace.
Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 2016