Curate’s Egg

Insomnia burns a figure onto my field. The shape is washed by the early morning light.

The figure’s feet brush away the vapours of sleep.

I want to trust it. There’s a mind in there, and minds can often be trusted.

It’s morning, and the figure has been robed in the colour of power.

Can this colour ever be indeterminate? Must it come down on one side or the other?

Can the figure walk away from certainty? Yes, in a world other than the one I know.

Who puts on the purple cloak?

I know many priests. Few of them wear a robe.

Few of them stay in the designated holy places.

Few of them are known to the authorities. Few are certain.

Do they burn in the sleepless morning? Do they walk in mountain passes?

Do they walk in the high field? Do they wear the purple?