It’s late, the sky’s my screen. Laurence Olivier is fleeing
through a forest, dark fronds clutching, clawing at him;
a gothic tale, full of the drama of black and white.
The forest is vast and he must run blindly through it,
somewhere behind is the story I haven’t seen, and
somewhere ahead is a boundary with a land no one knows.
I am at my window, the land I know is quenched;
above, across the inexplicable expanse of the Heavens, is adventure;
I watch it, take it to my bed, and know tomorrow colour will return.
Happy New Year.
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