For the Soul of Your Mother

From the pitch blue that strikes
ache in the eye for trying
to find a bottom,
we carried into
Reeth under iridescence.
Always a longer drive than remembered,
a very serious walk, and a wonder
at the soundness of the whole idea
upon arrival; ice cream parlour
locked up and all.
An evil of colour
this sundown,
bedraggled with cloud-rips.
Lost I’d say, or left behind –
garter snake ecdysis,
or vixen smeared
over an oily road;
that thrift shop cardie
you’d never wear,
but for the soul of your mother,
can’t take your eye off.