By | 1 August 2017

Wind on your path
whips you clean; on your brow
a row of sweat – though these were dear,
now I name God my first, and jewels and deeds from
where I cannot see, bind me to the tree of death – tint of mead
and straw; at the quay, we wait for fish; on the rocks, we seek dark; few
could view such a flat scene: not a live thing at all, but skinks;
hard though we tried, still slipped, a word here, a word there;
then the fall, the bleat, the fog and hill and dam and sloth –
whip us to a halt; to go far and far is mad; to go back is mad;
to tilt is to take a dive to the depths; come and see –
what you can not see – the nude,
hushed wind.

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