If, in the half falling light
Of an overwarm November day,
I stand myself on top of a hill
With my arms above my head,
Fingers clawing down the
fading substance of day,
I could be hollow and still.
Just as the tree standing on the reflected hill,
Standing naked of its parasitic leaves
of memory, connected vein by inky vein.
Free to be still, without rustling folds
of my silk skirt crawling down the stairs.
The tattered remains of its glinting dream,
Being dragged through to the early hours
Of the grey decaying day.
I could be oblique and hidden
Against the backdrop of the hour full night;
Avoiding the colouring of poets,
who shade beneath leaves of thoughts.