Thin Sticks Walking by Annie Kerr
Thin sticks, walking. Tumbleweed dot of
dog runs beside them and away like a
looping thread. Fading smaller they are
merging with ground bound rain of mirage
shimmer, where refraction pulls their
movements into a staccato dance from a
chaotic pen. They break up like static, hit
the lip before they fall into the abyss of
distance too far to see.
And after their falling
the stillest space. Endless sand.
Forever sky reflecting in the mirror of
shallows. A canvas that shows the
tiniest change. It waits for a new word
on an empty page.
When I discovered Ruth Stage's paintings Annie Kerr's poem came to mind. I'm sure you can see why.
