He’s trying to make big plans –
project a narrative that starts with him
and ends with him.
But the sky keeps changing,
the clouds are too near,
even the air changes from one moment to the next: hot-dry, wet-cold, damp-warm.
Attempts at compromise get him nowhere,
the spiked gorse blocks his path.
The sun is low and bright –
a peculiarity of the light makes
the underside of oak leafs
in the next field long-lense crisp.
Conclusions elude him,
his thoughts are too linear, too starched.
All is green but not lush –
green, muted green, grey green,
yellow green, black green, white green,
green rusted to red brown.
Even the white-pricked pink purple
thistle flowers belong to the green,
exist only in relation to it.
Near a roll of discarded barbed wire fence,
rusted and confused with grass and thistle
are some branches, cut to a length.
Each is bearded with white green moss,
jolie laide, these are as close as he gets to an answer.