Landscape, by Gaia Holmes

You will come wet-fingered
and blur my outlines,
smudge the neat shapes I’ve drawn
into the colours of the sky,
until angles and pencilled edges
become a wash, a mulch, a mess.

Let me draw us safely now.
Stick man, stick woman,
fingerless, faceless and stark
with a six mile gap between us
expressing nothing – toneless and bland
except for our fat magenta hearts.