The Unpainted Year

last year it was as though I’d lost
my mentor
or a thumb
no captain inside, no
black, no white
colour or season, every stroke
I tried disjointed, the eluding
craft a stone at the nape
oils on the palate
mixed to liquid indifference

it’s the titanium bright
of now
that highlights
from this height you can
see the grey starts cloudlike
just over
there
with me
at the foot of that stout hill
I jack-and-jilled down, ends
at that new bridge, no
distance, really
once you’re up here

all the rest is stippled
in sun, the Scirocco will clear
that mist, scour the palate clean
as velum, lay
out all the new
colours like buttons
down the line of the year