I’ve a hard time casting
a shadow,
the rays don’t recognize my form.

There’s a fever in
my insides,
woolly and overgrown.

There’s no one on this
dull cove,
a bleak palette for a dream.

You’re meandering like
cold water,
can’t stay afloat in your streams.

I’ll plant a tree if you
nurture it,
though your branches are pruned.

There’s no dry-run for
this scene,
I’m unrehearsed for you.

We’ll build a room for
our haunts,
I won’t open the door.

We’ll paint over old
silver linings,
to abide once more.

The rays will recognise
these forms,
fused clay of the earth.


Hidden Gully‘, Richard Claremont 2016, oil on canvas


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