I stumped my toe on a stone, the doctor
gave me powder to stop the wound turning septic.
Next morning the bruise was gone, yet the sky
was black and unhappy as hell.
Not being superstitious, I chalk it down
to circumstance, discounting witchcraft.
I wanted to write a poem about blue skies
borrow colours from the rainbow and paint
horizons bright. My mind swells
thinking of landscapes about to shape in “Word”,
marveling at a keyboard’s power to transmit
through fragile fingers, thoughts brittle as clay bricks
fashioned in the mind, but not in the clouds outside.
A dirty dawn greets the year’s first month, its haze
lingers until May. Rains gather to dance to fresh songs
on flutes of wind whisking dust through bamboo groves
on nights I am pressed to sleep.
A nervous sky distorts the balance.
When heaven is angry, everything goes on hold.