Clouds roll, flow, curl and unfurl in volutes,
lazy smoke escaping speechless lips.
A gentle puff presses the dawdling buzzard.
Essence of rain, diffuse in chalky blue,
soaks into stretched canvas, as light as gauze.
Ash trees, forgotten paintbrushes of dark days
splay stiff bristles into the winter sky;
cold decants by soft degrees in the combe.
The breeze runs waves over grey needled grass;
the last late-hanging leaves rustle and turn.
Wind, like a breaker, falls; the shudder of its surge
transfixes the pale sun and lifts the buzzard up
into the haze. Tints shift: fugitive liquid gaze,
unfathomable iris, flyleaf of the soul.
After studying French, Jane Angué now lives and works in France, teaching English Language and Literature. She enjoys introducing her students to poetry. She writes in French and English, was longlisted for the Erbacce Prize 2018 and her work has recently appeared in incertain regard, Le Capital des Mots and Dawntreader.