Girl with Pitcher

Somewhere between
the sleeping and
the waking...
the rawness,
and the redness
of the dawn

before it sifts
into pink
and stark daylight –
studies the rifts
fissures, cliffs
of the landscape

she lets it bathe
the arc of her cheek
the line of her jaw
the cleft
of her chin
and the soles
of her feet.

A moment
comes and goes
repeats itself –
infinitely.
Plumes of grass
hang low – heavy
with morning tears...

a five-bar gate
opens and shuts –
mesmerised
by its own shadow
and the simple
dynamics
of light and shade
as it filters
through the scrim
of scrubby trees

and the water
in the well –
lacklustre today
as she lowers
her pitcher. Hers
a pallid life
of honest chores
but not at all
what she’d had
in mind.