The man lying on his back under the high trees is also up there. He rills out in thousand-fold twigs, sways to and fro, sits in an ejector seat which releases in slow motion.
The man down by the piers narrows up his eyes at the water.
The piers grow old more quickly than people.
They have silver-grey timber and stones in their stomachs.
The blinding light beats right in.
The man traveling all day in an open boat over the glittering bays shall sleep at last inside a blue lamp while the islands creep like large moths across the glass.
Waking up is a parachute jump from dreams. Free of the suffocating turbulence the traveler sinks toward the green zone of morning. Things flare up. From the viewpoint of the quivering lark he is aware of the huge root systems of the trees, their swaying underground lamps. But aboveground there’s greenery - a tropical flood of it - with lifted arms, listening to the beat of an invisible pump.
There’s a tree walking around in the rain, it rushes past us in the pouring grey. It has an errand. It gathers life out of the rain like a blackbird in an orchard.
When the rain stops so does the tree. There it is, quiet on clear nights waiting as we do for the moment when the snowflakes blossom in space.
On the main road into the city when the sun is low. The traffic thickens, crawls. It is a sluggish dragon glittering. I am one of the dragon’s scales. Suddenly the red sun is right in the middle of the windscreen streaming in. I am transparent and writing becomes visible inside me words in invisible ink which appear when the paper is held to the fire! I know I must get far away straight through the city and then further until it is time to go out and walk far in the forest. Walk in the footprints of the badger. It gets dark, difficult to see. In there on the moss lie stones. One of the stones is precious. It can change everything it can make the darkness shine. It is a switch for the whole country. Everything depends on it. Look at it, touch it…
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Breathing Space July
The man lying on his back under the high trees is also up there. He rills out in thousand-fold twigs, sways to and fro, sits in an ejector seat which releases in slow motion.
The man down by the piers narrows up his eyes at the water.
The piers grow old more quickly than people.
They have silver-grey timber and stones in their stomachs.
The blinding light beats right in.
The man traveling all day in an open boat over the glittering bays shall sleep at last inside a blue lamp while the islands creep like large moths across the glass.
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Prelude
Waking up is a parachute jump from dreams.
Free of the suffocating turbulence the traveler
sinks toward the green zone of morning.
Things flare up. From the viewpoint of the quivering lark
he is aware of the huge root systems of the trees,
their swaying underground lamps. But aboveground
there’s greenery - a tropical flood of it - with
lifted arms, listening
to the beat of an invisible pump.
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The Tree and the Sky
There’s a tree walking around in the rain,
it rushes past us in the pouring grey.
It has an errand. It gathers life
out of the rain like a blackbird in an orchard.
When the rain stops so does the tree.
There it is, quiet on clear nights
waiting as we do for the moment
when the snowflakes blossom in space.
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Further In
On the main road into the city
when the sun is low.
The traffic thickens, crawls.
It is a sluggish dragon glittering.
I am one of the dragon’s scales.
Suddenly the red sun is
right in the middle of the windscreen
streaming in.
I am transparent
and writing becomes visible
inside me
words in invisible ink
which appear
when the paper is held to the fire!
I know I must get far away
straight through the city and then
further until it is time to go out
and walk far in the forest.
Walk in the footprints of the badger.
It gets dark, difficult to see.
In there on the moss lie stones.
One of the stones is precious.
It can change everything
it can make the darkness shine.
It is a switch for the whole country.
Everything depends on it.
Look at it, touch it…
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