Trophy hunting

I.

Sometimes, summer dusk promises no rain
Sky like blistered fire in a whitesmith's forge
Eyes become giddy with riches and flame
With all that glides your mesmered gaze ignored.

II.

Brush dip the sky-line and colour the night
Running where eyes do not help, the woods, caves
Where only ears and fingertips give sight
Mice in the grass sound like leopards at play.

Sunset led me into blindness.

To this cathedral, where eyes are no aid
Dark decorates dark, laticed and yawning
All solid darkles
Ornament is silouhette and scratches
Saved for morning.

In this black abyss came a beast so vast
Its stone haunches shifted trees like dancers
Its vermeil ivory rich outshone the moon
Each deft step cast, a giant earthquake passed
Night falling in night. Darkness bright as noon.

Sunset led me into ink.

In silouhette decorated cathedrals
I stumbled
Where swelling fear holds your face from truth
Till my soles broke brambles to sweet dark juice
Morticed brush to paths, that for others lay
To the horizon, hillls, the holloway
I stumbled
From the sweet dank stench of wet earth at night
To the pale, nervous scorn of morning light.

III.

In peeley-walley day's advance
When cold braves slept and field mice crept
And all that's left is detritus
Feathers slipped silent from the branch.

As shepherds watch rams that fight
And fisher seeks the fish to bite
After blind, warm, embroidered night
My sore eyes caught a final flight.

In false first light's nervous scorn
I saw Minerva's owl at dawn.