Matthew Fisher

THE BLIND ART OF CAMOUFLAGE In search of the Velvet Queen, Crawl two capturerers upon a blind. Plains and outcrops oscillate around them in perfect symphony. Silence. Broken not by them but a bellow That leads a herd of prey, To punctuate the horizon sky like words On a page so old and faded. Yellow. Steam and dust dance between the ground, Hooves, skin, wet noses and antler-locks. Otherworldly gold succumbs the night to distant death. A new day, be profound. Charred giants soften with light's first smoke, And breathe life, to puppets in their world back home. Here the still man's mind is clear. His strings and handles broke. In the absurd crags of North Tibet, Humanity's not yet chanced to sink its claws. For here a world of lonesome decay, A nomads cause, in silhouette. Warriors, unmodern in their territory wars Share battlegrounds fought for Queens. Each beast their role, a forward inch. Unpromised. Each life brings new tears. I'm amazed by them, the inhabitants. Gifting the capturers knowledge of their hidden world. Each bird or sniff, each startled look, A fossilized paw, encouragement! When snow descends and turns black white, Days get lost. No scent or sign, an unstill mind might falter, Through labarynths of epileptic night. A falcon. On the Ridge, their last cruel capture. Time to turn home. Their clueless search ends with A grimace in patience' grip. Alas! --- In wonder of the two puppet's charge, Crawls the captured crown upon a blind. To watch unseen the Velvet Queen, The art of camouflage.