Vessels

Matins 344 Portsoken (Make Me A Viceroy) Sing Luna, Sing Saviour Lace Bill Neate & the Gas-man Another Folly Under This Light, Through the Night-Dress Blush & Haggard August





August





So swept, in this gale, distinguishing detail is impossible.
I watch her escape, spun loose from my reel,
ceremonially robed in faded gold and Fortnum teal.
My heather fields are blossoming too soft to snag her string.
Clouds reveal an edge of steel for the sharpening;
the whitest sparks to fling.

Is your disappearance a concern?
A colour to confirm?

Corinthian Grey flicks kiss-curls in mirrors;
a broken pediment, twin-lit by sunshine
of Bishopsgate glaziers and Great Eastern poets'
new orange liveries. This heat, this arching plume
of august steam, fills concrete rooms and sea-side canopies
with tea-towel dreams. Two gulls hang;
breezy chattering of chip-shop cherubim.




August (1995) by Bridget Riley Fortnum & Mason Storm and Heather, North York Moors Overground




© No Spinoza
2010