A fresh tilt
At belief
A new understanding
Of how things lie
Am I to be manipulated
To become manipulative
To begin
By rearranging reality
Is this what Cezanne saw
Each morning
Looking out
Towards Blue Mountain
Was the snow
Through the rows of aspen
So secretly white
So serenely drifting
Forget
About the foreground
Tar-macadam
Which may be
A not unattractive word
Although visually
Other than in great swathes
It is rather lacking
Even in the sunlight
The five or six silver birch
Good that you counted
And the swing
Beneath the apple trees
All of that must stay
The ridge though
Maybe to move that sideways
Before, but not before
Love and kindness
The thin blue line
That is crossed
Then crossed again
One plus one
Makes
What one chooses
Beware
The longer stare
It is the loser
First light, blue sky
All that walking
In the sun
Nattered
By pointless diversions
Critical
In the hot air
Not thoughtless
Although thoughts
Can be hard to handle
Particulates
Cells
Your A++
Dotted
About thin hair
Moving ever so
Slowly down
Into a gathering
Sufficient for recognition
Slivers of silver white
The mix
Approaching contagious
