Her eyes are swing-into-the-river on a rope and let-go blue

The shawl falls around her like a river,
or hair or an arm
Something about history, comfort and flow

She stands still by the side of the road
a stop sign for a face

He watches
she is just a pencil line
The tea the ink of tea is spilt blame
He is water colour leaning his elbow on his knee

Holding hands across the blame

The idea I forgot was blue
as big as the sky blue
open bowl blue

From Claire Gaskin’s collection, a bud.