Last sight of northern sky
soft-fading above deepening dark,
your backyard scarfed in iced sapphire –
fine Donegal wool... I
failed
to take a final photo – hopeless
in that regard – too busy stowing sight,
too busy lip syncing words –
composing soundtrack poem,
too deep-dipped
in experience – myself – the shivering quill,
my blood - the very ink.

Such sky colours belong to Mother Goose,
to nurseries,
to tiny, rumpled socks resurrected
from under bed – mystically,
no longer paired.

Such subtlety would not
be found
where I have anchored now – where skies bray
in flagrant pomegranate,
in brazen tangerine, in eye-aching blaze,
in cerulean – so Nolan* –
one is tempted to assume blue
could never be transmuted. Diluted?
No. 
Transfigured.

*Sidney Nolan - Australian painter famous for his landscapes and Ned Kelly series.