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1 1 1 R G L I M P S E R O B I N M A G O W A N Sky’s plot unfolds in each windblown revision of the instant and the unattainable: mists, pathways, deepening greens and graying hills – the same elements, but reconfigured so, all I can do is sit, entranced, as the array transforms by irresolute degrees. Will the threat of blue in the east be repaired by a chance cloud? Who, I ask, installs the wind in sunshine, who turns the bird volume to Yes? Now something else swirls its introspective mist . . . ...

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