Out on the lake

which slips by

a deep blue full of questions beneath my canoe,

I watch the hills.

You can only watch something that moves.

You look at something stationary.

But the hills move,  though imperceptibly

(in a manner that is so slight, gradual or subtle so as not to be perceived).

They move, this I know, because they are green

yet there is a suspicion, a premonition

of colour

that hangs above them, waiting to settle over them.

non è ancora autunno, it says, hovering there.

But almost.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s