A Poem a Day (589): Catchment

 
Catchment

White feathers in the catchment
seek to reflect the faintest flicker of light,
dispatch a slick sensation of listening in
to flecked starlings take flight outside,
dampened by the first spit of rain.
 
Watch it all slide.
 
Trickles like tears on the windowpane
create a view of misted morning,
unreliable mirrors recreating still life in paint,
skin canvases. Pictures of water rushing out
into ebb and flow and push and shove.
 
The light outside is caught by small hands,
tiniest palms, unable to stop this watery glide
seeping through stick-stubby fingers.
Fists pound a rhythm on tarpaulin roofs,
call out for some long-imagined sanctuary.
 
This wrapped blue circle catches dreams,
fails to open this turn-switch kaleidoscope,
yet cradles hope like a sleeping newborn babe,
draws it close against the seeping darkness,
all-encroaching, looking for a steal.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, May 23, 2023