Temple Walking

Night is my temple

of silence.

Monochrome razer-lined bush,

sky or land;

charcoal clovers with onyx gaps

of unfathomable depth;

and that silver rippling liquid,

gently wrinkling in the breeze,

like the corners of a smile.

Comforted by loneliness

of my own creature –

I offer myself in pilgrimage

to the dark beauty

of creamy dusk-light.

Walking through glue-tongued mud,

getting licked.

No one around

on the canal at night – what a delight.

just me, the air and the others

craving the quiet moon.

A swan nestles besides the

orbiting rock’s reflection.

Appearing as lost lovers,

as one entity,

half bird, half meteor.

Many mistake the towpath

for shady misdemeanour

in its nocturnal shape,

but it’s home, beneath stars:

a stroll through chocolate:

smooth, comforting, unexpected.

I do not fear interruption,

empowered by the veil of unknown.

Colours change identity in the absence of day,

Peridot ivy becomes

unplaceable zaffre.

Air tastes plum-sticky, magic

leaving me

fattened with yearning.

I prowl

trust the pace of my stride,

invigored by this blind glide,

listening for the operas of owls.