Moving at the speed of time, we circle dizzily –
a small headache’s worth above the ground –
close enough to see a thin trickle of water
spill wetly into the Sound,
close enough to count trees and see pellucidly
the shape and colour of their windy forms,
close enough to want to touch the rusty soil
& dip brave fingers in sun-splintered waves,
close enough to die.
Into the fields on trails of flattened grass,
squirming past a hinge-hung functionless door
into the ripe scent of wetted hay, shit & mother-milk
we creep humbly, like shepherds after the star,
to find kids as sweetly passive as kittens,
and the piebald billy purring – goat-style –
to our subtle horn-scritching. A billy
much unwanted & due at some paschal feast
with his three male mates.
Candles in the barren window, loaves of waldron wheat,
chicks silenced by the coming of the night,
men in their beards of authority;
frogs croaking in massive chorus,
stars as clear as our eyes.
No fog, no delusion,
not a whisper of a bump.