The Borderline

       I watch the shadows spread

Like Petri-dish bacteria across

   The new-mown lawn, as sunbeams toss

   Their tawny mane and all the red

       Corona-rays immerse

   Thick light in cloud, which descants when

   Penumbra run their regimen

Of self-dissociations, and disperse.

       No borderline between

The pinkish heights and blood-red sun is clear.

   It is familiar but a scene

   That baffles still, where colours veer

       And coruscate around

   I can’t think what. The evening sky

   Is sceptical of any ground

For saying what’s divisible, or why.

       And maybe all our task

(Or much of it) is differentiation.

   The world comes integrated. Ask

   That oak, which with slow concentration

       Collects a crown of air

   And angles for the windy light.

   To be surviving is to care

For joins and ruptures. Evening, day and night.

       No nuance that I know

Can capture all the subtleties of light.

   It is the most effusive show

   World-fabric has: sun’s dynamite,

       Which loves us. Is requited.

   As shadows pass and leave no sign

   Of passing, so I stand, delighted,

And watch these borders of the borderline.