Its scent is its colour,

 

            thickened

 

                  to still me,

 

                       as I'm night-walking.

 

 

Preening strangers' hedgerows, a thief

 

     for black lilac.

 

                             Already,

 

                                            stars.

 

Shadow

 

    fattens the scent.

 

           Perhaps a woman's passing, her

 

                                evoked throat: sole amethyst

 

                                           leafed in jet, on silver wire.

 

Night ripples -

 

         breeze fingering the silks.

 

                                      If I'd a home:

 

This garden, this woman.

 

 

 

©2007 Noel Williams.  Reproduced with permission of the author.