Surreally Cerulean – Joy Reid

Dreaming by the dam
dark as a river-damp rock
one would hardly credit legs… so tucked
under is the heifer.
I mute the four-stroke
lean biker-moll-flat on blood-warm tank
tent-peg legs out and rowboat-rock…
rock…
Sun massages shoulders.
Dragonflies play truck and trailer tag
skirting silt-milky abalone shore
for cattle have stirred up silky clay
breeze painting frown lines on tea-tree stain – yep
I know I should re-rev get going check lower paddocks
but heifer has just levered up
stiff hips ratcheting
humped tail her bovine idiom
and now I see small puddled shape,
streamer of pink trailing wet-heavy, fly-sticky.
G i p p s l a n d seep into skin
moments of osmosis, p i x e l a t e and photon in.
I will not die if I transplant
but perhaps I will fade
grow mind-membrane-cataracts so that black swans’ fluting calls
become bicycle horns
the cloud-gathering dam just another damn Cloud Atlas.
Will
All
d i s s o l v e into the muted mists of England
and will I one day swear that this sky
this day
could not
have been so utterly and surreally cerulean?