The perfect colour

Shade grey rising

From a tired hill

In the form of smoke.

Walking for the sake

Of some frail destination

With echoes of graves and lovers

Covering the paces.

Every breath dreaming of relevance

Until a silk of stillness

And strangle of flowers

Beats the path finished.

A feint light forms

The brief, naked image

Of the creature in all of us

That wants to be alive.