Silver Tells

Shadows in the silver

Show a white raven

But the bird is black

Hanging upside down from a clock

Ticking backwards.

Someone has painted yellow

Across the blue of my sky

Causing glens to grow

Between the stumps

Housed in my bag.

I am at the crossroads

Standing on copper plates

Laced with purple ink

Watching the newspaper boys

Collecting pennies from the gutter

Waiting for the

Bus to carry me beyond the bicycle racks

Into the point lace wrapped around my beret

Where a woman

As old as the glaciers

Weaves fate betwixt her needles.

Image by Omid Armin