Vulture

I feel the itch

and scratch of

coarse polyester

grating, sanding

at my skin;

dreams of trying

to take off

into the air

before landing

hard with weight

pressing and flaking;

torrents of

dirty dishwater

swirling, kicking

up the rotten mulch

unbearable;

I hop and

recoil through

my day

as though life

is a hot poker

smarting and cynical.

Then

moonlight beckons.

And I remember

that the veils

have lifted

and I am in

the time

before I bleed.

Wood’s gradient sings.

I cycle along

the ridge of a great dam,

clutching at the wall

and I am the water

the drop

bicycle

all.

Soft grey

Rain

opens her arms

as slumbers of

Forgiveness and Quietude

stroke my hair,

kiss my brow.

I burrow

I listen

I receive

even as ground falters

and I tremble

at the mystery,

gape at the awe,

I feel my

inky wings

stretch,

finally,

and into

moon’s night,

I soar

ready to pore

over the glistening entrails.

Silt

Silt:

potential banks,

meanders and

beds

that flurried

and formed.

Then

drifted

did not bind

and bend

and the river sighed:

another course to wind.

The fertile earth

that was lost

became found

home

elsewhere

but gone are

the shells, and

sweet grasses

and clover

of a

ground conceived.

Footsteps not taken.

Sun and stars

that did not

bathe a time

with blessing and

light.

The silk of

silt,

sleeping,

dreaming

of smiles

hands

hearts

homes

lips

amongst the

wistful whistling

reeds.