(for Denis Brutus)

Mist overflows
over close mountains,

pales the horizon halfway;

the sun strains
yet remains a blur
dull on one side of the face;

birds split the eyelids of beeches
chattering as crickets
in a small open fire;

no scent, only silver-dew
in the grass;

palms upwards,
tiny grey plumes leave my lips –

oh that I could stretch,
lift myself and drift
in that sea,
over cares and sweat
across distances,

but a dog yowls
at the echo of dim traffic;

a minute’s clarity,
and mist begins
to ebb from rock, skywards;

the sun, alas,
honing its knife sharp
for the lilac heart of dawn.