Contours

The first, curious tinges of sunrise peer over the horizon,
Surveying the fabric of the land.

It lies in a drape of quilted darkness -

A blanket embroidered with hanging crystals.

And thus, with meticulous eye, the dawn

Feeds its golden thread through the upholstered landscape:

Soft silk stitched into linen,

Hugging the contours of the hills.

This drowsy canvas, swimming in ghostly mist -

Floating dormant and still in shadow -

Now ripples, undulates, swells into colour,

Unravelling her sleeping form.

Narnia awake.

She lies upon her side.

From the small, shallow outline of her draped feet

Her body stretches across the horizon

In a sculpted ridge.

Her knees curl in to her body as she sleeps,

And so the landscape traces:

Material clumping around her coiled form

And falling away in cliff-like folds. Climbing

On, on towards the summit,

Curving in one smooth, snow-capped arch:

A feminine peak of perfection

Which falls gracefully into the valley below:

A valley which rises and falls in deep unknowing breaths.

Perhaps it is the swelling of the tide,

The life-giving ocean

From which all our journeys start.

And from beneath this silvery, silken sheen

Her smooth, sun-kissed skin melts free,

As though swimming out of morning fog –

Cool and clear like glaciers of ice.

The morning dawn breathes its light over her rapt, sleeping face,

Chiselling her features:

A thousand Monets

And their palates of golden light.

[2009]