Whatever comes to hand

Coming back from another country,

leaving it a night for things

to settle I notice how this one, too,

is in colour, rinsed: leaves, sky, bricks,

light. Knowing where I have to go, it’s shades

of Blake and the prison-

door, the fluttering mind, clipped

and folded, stapled even; copied.

There’s only so far

you can go without kicking

out maybe by drawing

hieroglyphs on your wrist, pulling down

a screen, a tableau vivant, they can’t

see it, it’s your vision –

when they look into them your

eyes are attentive,

compliant. At this stage of the day,

strong colours are imperceptibly fading,

you’ll notice,

though, breathe, travel, remember