23 January 2012

Fresh-cut grass, strangler fig and mulch
The butcher-bird’s song on soothing grey breeze
The moan of machinery

Old stones – not to be tied to,
But rather, to stand on
While I reach towards new light

Soft rain-drops on my face

Later, I watch the curtain of it,
Breathe the sweet that counters sweat,
Want to sever my ties to time
That I may turn my face up to the rain –
A dialogue between sea and sky
With me in the middle
Feeling the flow at last

One day soon


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