This is for Paul Brookes’ December challenge.

Turning on the light

On the pond, boatmen skim,
insect skiffs, leaves dry-curled,
red on green water,
and the dimples are silver.

In the sky, clouds lower,
ragged laundry, waiting
to be rain-washed
and hung to dry.

A wind gusts,
ruffling tree heads,
pushing though the billows,

and through the rent
in the sodden cloud-fabric,
suddenly, the sun—

light falls through the trees
onto still water, red leaves,
skimming insects,
and the dimples turn to gold.