High on a blustery jut
he flouts his fear upon a buoyant swell.
Breathes in the tang
of crowberries and storm clouds
aroma’s sieved through wind and limestone,
sheep piss and heather.
Way down on a lower sky
rock ravens spiral.
This is his land, his free blown air.
There he declares himself
the very image of this scudding world;
and he magnified and upright,
somewhere between
a twirling gnat
and a new begot God.
© a day ago
The tang of crowberries and storm clouds
sieved through wind and limestone
sheep’s piss and heather.
Beneath the high rock, ravens spiral,
swoop through a flying sky.
This is my land, this moment
I declare myself the very image of the One image,
magnified, upright, somewhere between
a wind-blown gnat and the rocketing reach
of a reckless God.
Back and forth on the blustery jut
I rock my brain in its buoyant swell.
The tang of crowberries and storm clouds
sieved through wind and limestone,
sheep’s piss and heather.
Beneath the high rock, rock ravens spiral,
peregrine swoop within a flying sky
turned upside down.
This is my land, this moment
I declare myself
the very image of this twirling world,
magnified, upright,
somewhere between
a wind-blown gnat
and God.
Back and forth, on the blustery jut
I rock my brain in its buoyant swell.
The tang of crowberries and storm clouds
sieved through wind and limestone,
sheep’s piss and heather.
Beneath my high rock, rock ravens spiral,
peregrine swoop; a flying sky
turned upside down.
This is my land, this moment
I declare myself
The very image of this twirling world,
yet magnified and upright,
somewhere between
a wind-blown gnat
and God.
Gather the crowberries for this windfeast.
Adorning our cheeks with ochre
we pile together
a throne of old rowan.
The staggards behind us;
warm breath at our napes.
We are as careful as a circle.
So a keening for the wild flightsman,
the hewer of stone, blood-iron hearted,
now dead as a distant star
that points the way of smoke, of fire.
But for a moment the wind resides.