It is the yolk of a pearlescent oyster,
A Viennese swirl baked to a slow caramelisation;
It hurls itself over the broken edges of peaks, smashed like egg shells, sculpted in marble.
The cracked tiles of the village are doll houses in miniature,
you can cut the clouds with a knife, spread it on the plains like a dollop of thick cream.
Molten metal cannonballs shot in rose gold.
Copyright © 2016 by Kate W J White (All Rights Reserved)