silk bus, stone world

silk bus, stone world..

Like a silk-sailed bus on a Sunday route
sticks to the frozen flux, a moment in which
a flower overflows its trough of stone,
stone basin in an urban park – orange
flares across its petals like a sun –
so much stone world, I stoop over its little form,

my good old camera stuck with masking tape,
the sense of being watched – is it their rigor or their torpor
that affects me like the closing of a drape?
With one colour it has done so much,
like a promenader with a yellow head-scarf;
and its beauty is set off by a fault
like a cigarette burn near its centre,
and at the centre a bit of stone shows through.

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