After John Atkinson Grimshaw
You don’t yet know the fae.
Its church arches and bones.
It overlays on the trees
which become a seething delta
How the pools reflect black
to spite what they note above them
never sure of the horizon
your gaze wanders, unceasing
thin and twisting flowers
the green, and floating flakes of gold leaf
the faintly blue of the night
then, which slips alongside – her;
uncreasing the folds between worlds –
her insect wing-shimmer. And bright
shines one thing nakedness can do
mournfully at you, with a crown of flowers
The fae curves just like this.
It worships with patient light
that which you may worship.
If she wants you, touch the canvas.