The sun has stolen the colour from the sky;
Leached it bright, whitehot, bone dry.
I tip my head and gaze up high.
On powdery winds greydoves fly.
Like talc, so that horizons blur
And smudge and shimmy and slowly slur,
For lips are fat cracked in kilnhotheat
Slippery dust beneath barefeet.
And with her canvas blanched of stain
The sun she clambers up again
And rolls furnace red into sight
Turning blush pink the virginal white.