of her ultrasound
. . . opal dawn
don't know why we’ve taken this unknown road. The sky's a-wash with
colour and we've still a way to go. Suddenly you say: 'Look, a hare.'
It's poised in the minute of that final blaze, as if in an otherworldly
trance. Just one glimpse becomes a lumen print.
lopes into the undergrowth. Nothing is visible but two large ears and
bright eyes peeping through burnished frondescence. What is it waiting
for? For a while we sit in the grace of the moment, expecting some
miracle to happen. By now our muse has slipped into evening . . .
the full moon offers