Driving home in the late afternoon
the distant horizon is wounded
by a silhouette of trees,
stripped naked of their foliage by winter.
Now witches brooms, scarring the skyline.
They hold up the grey fog bank
which is descending menacingly
from the rose pink clouds above.
A slowly dying azure blue
tops off this vast skyscape.
But what really has me
is the early evening moon
away to my right.
A geomatrist’s perfect circle of platinum
punched with a precision I will never know
into the atmosphere.
A shimmering key-whole, through which to gaze
at some otherness.
I pull over the car.
(Which is wise when attempting such things)
And reaching up, I hook a fingertip
around the lower curve of this break in the ether
and haul myself up.
After hanging there a moment, suspended
tasting the crystal air,
I close my right eye and press my left cheek
flush to the sky
and peer through.
Matthew Coombe
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