Spiced gold branches flare in trowelled oil paints,
meekest grey insinuating watercolour lamplight forms
which haemorrhage their sodden light into a compact air.
The Broad Walk narrows and it cannot say
if gluey dawn or hefty dusk is oozing from this mood and moment
as a breath curls up and ruts like wet sand in the sky.
Outer space is only ten feet up today, and mist folds in
as light gives out, and with my fists and with my smile
I knead the air’s slack dough and watch it rise and dimple.