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Motionality
If I could but reach
a little bit further,
the Baltic winds, the Irish Sea,
not even the Atlantic
could my need
for misgivings divide.
What a sin to be whole!
Let no thing restore my soul,
not swells of madness,
nor gladness proliferating
in form of second chances,
marching to and fro
for reverence of the return.
Let not my feet
ingratiate the hums beneath
the home-lit flooring,
after peaking Tetnuldi,
or even Cairn Gorm.
Because what is peace
but the absence of being driven?
Let sleep be my portion
of that place!
And let life in motion be
its own recompense.
Copyright ©
Erin Beckett
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