I seem to have been coming across contours often recently in pictures, as well as out and about. I find something fascinating, elegant and rather inviting about encoding a sequence of physical changes into another domain in the form of sinuous sets of concentric boundary lines…
I accept the years’ past projections
From the café floorboards’ stripes.
I’ll scale this hardwood knap and sron,
Like a sculptor swaddled in fresh clay.
In Brighty beech tanged pools
Transform to backcast arcs,
Like nested blanket layers, each
Sudden chilly bracing of the night.
Beccy’s hand-mapped ocean oyster,
Tracy Island rendered by Bartholomew,
Plots subtly toned terraces of confusion,
Growing either up, or in, or both.
Each new boundary invites inner traverse,
Lungs strained to opening uplands,
Fingers indexing other seasons,
Curves wide-eyed to an opened hand.