Midday In the fading ember of the hour, where light pours its faltering silver and the stretch of the day drags, vacant, it measures life between the blades. Fierce sun reduces the tempest. A few low clouds tattle in high-stretched skies, rustling like leaves around the roots. There’s a calm in snaps of yellow, when the earth breathes golden, and unbanded invocations alive remind the mountain-like stance between. Whispering tongues, limbid of sight, funeral of flower, sweep up the edge, repose amidst the daylight, where time seems swallowed like secrets.

• Mina Loy