From three flights above, we watch Men so condemned to live
by the rhythm of land, attending to its bows and breaths.
Its backdrop of rags, acres stretched like a body bent —
quartered and quartered again, until it fits within a pocket.
When cheated by fate or by volition, do we not want for
more (one, an other) — to stretch time's every interval into infinity?
And yet we find ourselves subsumed and spent by
This rolling tableaux of life, the rattle of change.
The turning of shadows, hues of red and black
Falling and Lifting rhythms — an air of hessian and wine.
Footsteps on hollow ground.
Beauty shows herself with a stone front and timber back.
Time is stretched, pulled apart at its hem,
passing through so many fingertips its fragrance
affixes to them — until its silk scent dissipates.
This does not last more than ten seconds.
Into white light and Red wood, it blooms.
Incandescent Slits cut across beds of flowers,
bisecting strings and spinning chiffons. Opening buds
With fingers sprouting towards them, like undressing a wound.
Bodies hang like lacework, moving with the stir of the breeze
— shades of joy. Held up by catgut and
waiting to be plucked to the bone — in either feast
or quiet passing.
Without palms to press it into, and lips to speak it to,
How can man hold the memory of a shadow?
With a tick, and a harp for Want. Through counting
the metre of silence. With hands made for worship
you reach for these rungs.
Time slips through you, soft as clay
or golden bands. Re-centred and stilled,
you begin to unravel into brasses and blossoms.
Wherever you move there is my wake behind you.
It clings at your heels. Press your ear to ground and listen
for running water (for life!). The current sounds different each time.
Like Men, so cursed to love a body falling.