If I could Paint Essences by Anne Stevenson. 10 of 12.

10 of 12."If I Could Paint Essences"           

(Hay on Wye)

Another day in March. Late

rawness raws and wetness. I hear my mind say

if only I could paint essences.

Such as the mudness of mud

on this rainsoaked dyke where coltsfoot

displays its yellow misleading daisy.

Such as the westness of west here

in England's last thatched, rivered

county. Red ploughland. Green pasture.

Black cattle. Quick water. Overpainted

by lightshafts from layered gold

and purple cumulus. A cloudness of clouds

which are not likie anything but clouds.

But just as I arrive at true sightness of seeing,

unexpectedly I want to play on those bell-toned

cellos of delicate not-quite-flowering larches

tht offer, on the opposite hill, their unfurled

amber instruments -- floating, insubstantial, a rising

horizon of music embodied in light.

And in such imagining I lose sight of sight.

Just as I'll lose the tune of what

hurls in my head, as I turn back, turn

home to you, conversation, the inescapable ache

of trying to catch, say, the catness of cat

as he crouches, stalking his shadow,

on the other side of the window.

-- Anne Stevenson