for Autumn
a leyline – 
i suppose we call them 
                                                     songlines –
a gentle tug of the thread       like fishing line
                        wrapped around the stars 
                                                     making constellations
as above,

                       so below,
for one to find another
meanwhile,                                 swimming in the womb,
ready,
                        waiting,
                                                       to be born and be who we need to be
but the sediments of the universe
                                                       shift glacially	
thirty orbits around the sun
sufficient alignment                   we don’t question the ancestors
as they tenderly guide
with deftly worked and wise hands
the cosmic threads                       the umbilical cords
                        while we ask to
                                                          lobotomise the sky