A cabbage white:
bluster at the edge of sight,
unbroken bronco,
its own mute rodeo,
a battle without issue.
*
White toilet tissue,
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a single grey sheet, whole
in the lavatory bowl,
like ectoplasm.
*
No lightning in spasms.
Dark. But white rain,
smashed transparency:
contains
flash photography.
*
Is now electricity:
tiny bulbs, silver-white, shine
on the blue plastic washing line.
*
Dirty white, a pigeon tarred
and feathering the road.
*
New lambs
out on their limbs:
abrupt
little hiccoughs.
The twilight tone
of damp pumice stone.
*
Indifferent happiness writes
its different whites.
Craig Raine is a poet and critic and the editor of Areté magazine.
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This article appears in the 09 Dec 2015 issue of the New Statesman, The clash of empires
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