Blue Print

There's a certain green that lurks in ponds,
a trough sludge green,
slimy as frog spawn.
I saw that green lately on purpled flesh
the bloated carcasse,
once a ewe
transformed into a stinking heap,
legs an upturned saw horse,
teats rigid with unsucked milk.
Across the udder, bagpipe tight
it crept,
a virus nebulous as gas,
magnificent as the Magellan clouds,
grape and lime,
bruise and pus,
mountain and ocean.

In my mind now, the corpse recedes
boysenberry and spearmint swirled in cream.