There is a violent storm preparing for battle.
A cloud of bleak innocence shrouds the ether
and the photographer has gone quiet
for the world has turned stubborn today,
and then there will be silence.
He positions himself atop a hill,
spying through his lens.
Three magpies drive past and he
captures them like fish in a net.
The storm is rolling like a tide.
The bleeding sun enters centre-stage,
scorching the clouds and setting the sky
on fire. He angles his net and imprisons
the view.
‘Darling, come inside,’ she calls from afar.
He turns the shroud and wraps the dead sky
as she comes out from the cabin, bringing her words.
She crosses his line of fire and he takes
the silhouette into his net.
Her hair is rimmed with red,
the sky behind her, the sun and the magpies,
and the storm gathers ominously
behind the line of hornbeams.
And then there will be silence.