The etchwork of branches of trees seen
pasted on the sky,
imprint themselves on the lid of my inner eye.
Dark stick-patterns in the space of black
under closed eyes.
The underside of light.
But now the sun returns.
I look across a green expanse,
through hair which shines red in the breeze.
Colours of my mood.
The external, the internal.
Etchings of branches,
pathways on the inner eye.
Can I see to follow,
or does the bracken close in too deep?
pasted on the sky,
imprint themselves on the lid of my inner eye.
Dark stick-patterns in the space of black
under closed eyes.
The underside of light.
But now the sun returns.
I look across a green expanse,
through hair which shines red in the breeze.
Colours of my mood.
The external, the internal.
Etchings of branches,
pathways on the inner eye.
Can I see to follow,
or does the bracken close in too deep?
© Jennifer Phillips (All rights reserved)
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| Branches reflected © Jennifer Phillips |
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