Chagall 1950
Tangled in my underwater arms
drowning in seaweed green
you turn your head towards the open window
breathe deep draughts of cool lilac air,
ready yourself to dive into the road
which flows between our houses
curls away like a sea-serpent’s tail
swallowed by night.
High in the blueberry sky
a purple breasted phoenix
calls you to fly before the moon has waned,
for you are made of thistledown.
White puffs of smoke, left luminous in its wake
promise you even I will rise again
when you are fledged and flown.
A fresh new moon will slip its sliver
into the indigo dusk.
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