A Sun Worn

A Sun Worn.


To Cath.





In a piebald room with electric
starlight he wore the yellow
shirt, still attached to the wall,
on his head seeming for all the

world like a boy pharoah
framed and adorned by a shy
sun, egg yolk or mustard in
colour. He wore this yolk like

a high sun or a nun's cap – a
psychedelic wimple – and the
spots of light were like pimples
on the skin of the room. Another

child tried to make him take it
off: he did so, then replaced the
sun-hat like a space in a warm
room will rediscover a restless

cat. The shadows wore him
like they inhabit a small space
devoid of substance – but the
small boy filled the place with

the spread of his cloak and the
joke that the act became in the
loveliness of his action. A laugh,
beautiful and simple, told me it.