Andrew Johnston
Mauve
Mauve, the blue,
from edge to edge
then all the river —
the river Mauve —
many millstreams,
many mills
grind the grain of days —
the old days, that come back
one by one, all summer,
dressed in mauve.
*
Mirrorshards —
the dragonfly
helps you reassemble
iridescent splinters into
something resembling
the same face, lined
with broken light —
a pool of sky, its waterskin
unhidden by
the dragonfly.
*
Acres of slate I walk
in my chalk boots, disproving
formula after formula.
Time swam
in my hands
for all I care —
slate’s mauve tint,
mountains of cloud —
it will rain
and it will rain.
*
Mauve, a moment
leaves
move over
light
arrives,
divides,
leaving room
beside hard
white
time.
Andrew Johnston
Photo Charley Cupic
Andrew Johnston is a New Zealand poet who lives in Paris, where he edits The Page at http://thepage.name/ His most recent book is Birds of Europe (Victoria University Press, 2000). ‘Mauve’ is from his forthcoming book Sol.
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