The sea burning,
the heads of blued
Thistles nodding now,
You are drift
Ing across the dry grassy
Field of perception.
Above me,
Humming with the
Softness of hands in mud,
Words wing and land,
Clutching the branch of hope
That this is finally a sign.
The ache between the dunes, tilted
Towards the future, and darkened –
The song buried, sang back to me
By the whispering reeds.
I have a hope that
I, too, am moving towards the salted
River of woe.
My word covers the flame
And my word holds the flame –
You and I are these silver metals,
Lead, mercury, cadmium,
Submerged in corrosion.
We are out cold in
The moonlight and shining.
How the shine of night lasts,
More than a memory of even
A lamp, for this is pure stone light, a
Spectre against the stretch of darkness,
An image seizing alone in
The thorned meadow.
We speak a vision,
Speak a future into existence.
Like a burning.
