At no particular time
in no particular place
once, not long ago.

The sky was bright
with clouds high up
the texture of onion skins
in thick parallel lines
vanishing into the sun.

Picture a particular friend
stirring from sleep
on a large wooden bed
in sheets of silver known to me.
Eyes open
and immediately
pictures in the bathroom abluting
including scrubbing, scratching and wiping.
The house was warm.

In the hall
a vase of chrysanthemums stood
at the foot of the banisters
caught in a stream of early sunlight,
a blaze of yellow
which took me by surprise.

Later, a chrysanthemum
picked from the vase
was tucked into the band
of a brown felt hat.

In the kitchen
smeared dishes from the night before
and wine goblets with clear lip impressions.

Wide awake by this time 
and lingering in the lavatory
there were thoughts of a picture hanging there.
The blank white wall had stared long enough
each time it was faced.
The pictures were often horses
cantering in a wooded landscape
or the sea,
most often that,
rolling waves and cloudy white skies.

I sit on a solitary boulder
under an oak tree
in a gently sloping valley
where almost all colours
are blues and greens,
where all is as it is.

Horseflies swarm on ewe dung
with hungry activity,
a fist-sized oasis of brown nectar
in the green.
A peewit, repetitively shrill,
sings out in the sunshine
attracting another
then a pheasant joins in.

Later, in the woods,
blue and green reverse:
sky green canopies
and carpets of bluebells.