A ridge sits higher than my step,
a bright sphere lodged in its fork—
      still out of reach,

          still steady in its perch,
as if the day itself paused there.

A wash of colour drifts along

                     a slow‑moving bank,
a district fenced by weather and rumour.
Past the rise—past the next rise—
a dwelling glimmers as if waiting.

Late‑day purples wander the yard,
a kind of lure for anyone watching.
           We follow the trick of it,
though yesterday it turned its back
and let the light close without us.

.