This is for Sue Vincent’s #writephoto challenge. It started off as a poem and I rewrote it as a piece of prose, a sort of prose poem. I might try again and write something more story-like.
Purple the sky that quenches the sun, violet the cloudy horizon, and midnight is blue as a deep, dark well. I watch the fire that dies in the west, the night that falls harder than winter, and I long for a star to follow, for someone to guide my steps onward. But the valley echoes bronze bell-hollow, and the sedge bends beneath unseen steps. In the well of the world, the moon swims, a fish, round as a cheese, pale as death waiting like me, for the rising tide.
Purple the sky that rains cold tears, and I hide my face from its sorrow. But still I see the violet light of tomorrow’s illusions flicker and skim the dark well, a mirror, reflecting your face. Moon rises, flooding the world, and the great pale fish flicks its tail at the stars. On the mountain, I see through the snow—or is it the silver moonlight?—wolf tracks leading north. Something beckons, the wild red savagery of life, perhaps, and I feel the threads of my heart breaking. I will follow the wolf and the stars that shine behind the cloud that masks the sky, though you call and haul at the broken net.
Beyond the midnight sea is morning. Beyond the mocking mirror is a sky aflutter with white wings, rippling with the dance of the moonfish. You snapped my heart strings when you plucked them with the wrong music, and the purple and the violet, the colours of death, I shed like the rose sheds the dew on a windy autumn morning.