High in the blue a buzzard or two gone,
                     mind or brain looks down
or sees impediments as trees inside the skull’s
                     plain journey on foot.

Finches dart over lavender, the play of light
                     becomes dogmatic
even blotchy like bubbling water or white
                     clouds gathering crisply

Over a valley. There was a path breathy with
                     things unspeakable
or words for them, prickly bushes in the way
                     from a time to time

Pushing you to go south. Or somewhere
                     radical without
ice and its antique functions, chipped syllables
                     in a needle case

You could say, to disconcert the writer as
                     the path vanishes.
Ants and lichen on a tree trunk occupy a mind
                     at work or at rest

Thinking like a glimpse. Over the next hill
                     a hot-air balloon
or something floats, a far concept finally
                     attains its rhythm

As the clouds grow. Wild plums also grow
                     visible clusters
at any rate, small fruit happily found
                     in another part.

Ian Patterson teaches English at Queens’ College, Cambridge. His most recent poetry collection is Bound to Be (Equipage, 2017).