‘The yellow sky above the cross
in Tintoretto’s painting, does not stand
for despair, it is despair’.
Dawn calls up rain and lonely,
you sweat dully through your bed.
The Wim Wenders streets of ‘Wings of Desire’
ride away from you like postmen.
Geography is her telephone,
Tintoretto, you were too late for sunset,
your beer tastes of failing the Bay,
your lights slip by degree;
morning with her rosy cinematographer
blows up the dog hair.
You work to silence
your whispering Scuola di San Rocco,
for what, my friend?
The critics will deny your ‘Crucifixion’,
let yellow be dye; let the dog in
to lick its paw
remembering hard rain in the trees,
remembering her in your new green shirt.
© Hugh Tolhurst