i.
Heading south people change and it seems, by degrees
imperceptible over decades. In this place
the small 'i' looks into flight theory
for a bird out of season. Life as a rule
consists of evidence, the gentle breeze
or the gale force, it leans on faith
towards chance with the family,
the friends & the lovers you take
a shine to. A belief that obscene amounts
of change alarms, if the people
you love will only change with you.
But the saddest day is the one
where you find you've changed too
much and us not nearly enough.
ii.
Wing stretches while this log fire burns, all through
a sleepless stretch of evening.
The small 'i' re-working words
is hemp loose, as ideas fall
with passions onto paper.
At 4 a.m. body exhausted, walking
outside holding another.
Plumes tickle and rise in the head,
drift from the hand and the mouth.
Theres a mounting chipper of birds all
about, they rustle and stir in the bush
behind. Drawn closer, no doubt
by the sweet stench that floats
thick, in Kanimblas subzero air.
iii.
Air spirals as it is the vertigo and the wind
that gets me, holds me reticent
just one step away from the edge.
From the top of this plateau,
its a sheer drop into silence and
the cavernous mystery beneath.
The valley is fluted in layers of mist,
a scene stealer for the tourist and
the small 'i' alone on the stone
ledge of so vast an expanse.
Catching wits and breath,
I recall a friend having said that
a mountaineer once
saw god on K2s summit.
iv.
Weightless flight theres experience in that possibility,
in that solitary view of the infinite.
Precipitation clears from the valley
as birds and bird song wing
through the sunfiltered clouds.
And just beyond the falls
two iridescent rainbows form
the perfect tricolour arcs.
The sky is winter blue and enormous.
The small 'i' subdued, watches day
pass and the sun shine on the valley.
Consider how easy the choice
to take one step out and glide
weightless on air currents really is.
v.
Tail feathers and vegetation grow lush all the way
down through the pathway.
The legs wind the slim web of road
until it flattens out into brush country.
Horses graze close to the Tea Rooms
where theres hot food and a fire.
This valley less up close
less imposing than the view
from the top plateau suggests.
On the way back up echoes
of parrots and lyre.
The weather ominous as feathers
float with the snowfall when birds
lift from the trees and are gone.
vi.
Skyways in the old adobe home fire
warms flesh while the heart
beats slow and the small 'i' wonders
'where exactly in this anatomy
do wings fit?' In the cerebellum,
which itself feels nothing
synapses spark and push
memorys sharp edges
into tissue of the heart
or the head with no reply.
It makes no difference, what
the small 'i' decides - as just
because they can, birds will
stretch out their wings and fly.
--
Heading south people change and it seems, by degrees
imperceptible over decades. In this place
the small 'i' looks into flight theory
for a bird out of season. Life as a rule
consists of evidence, the gentle breeze
or the gale force, it leans on faith
towards chance with the family,
the friends & the lovers you take
a shine to. A belief that obscene amounts
of change alarms, if the people
you love will only change with you.
But the saddest day is the one
where you find you've changed too
much and us not nearly enough.
ii.
Wing stretches while this log fire burns, all through
a sleepless stretch of evening.
The small 'i' re-working words
is hemp loose, as ideas fall
with passions onto paper.
At 4 a.m. body exhausted, walking
outside holding another.
Plumes tickle and rise in the head,
drift from the hand and the mouth.
Theres a mounting chipper of birds all
about, they rustle and stir in the bush
behind. Drawn closer, no doubt
by the sweet stench that floats
thick, in Kanimblas subzero air.
iii.
Air spirals as it is the vertigo and the wind
that gets me, holds me reticent
just one step away from the edge.
From the top of this plateau,
its a sheer drop into silence and
the cavernous mystery beneath.
The valley is fluted in layers of mist,
a scene stealer for the tourist and
the small 'i' alone on the stone
ledge of so vast an expanse.
Catching wits and breath,
I recall a friend having said that
a mountaineer once
saw god on K2s summit.
iv.
Weightless flight theres experience in that possibility,
in that solitary view of the infinite.
Precipitation clears from the valley
as birds and bird song wing
through the sunfiltered clouds.
And just beyond the falls
two iridescent rainbows form
the perfect tricolour arcs.
The sky is winter blue and enormous.
The small 'i' subdued, watches day
pass and the sun shine on the valley.
Consider how easy the choice
to take one step out and glide
weightless on air currents really is.
v.
Tail feathers and vegetation grow lush all the way
down through the pathway.
The legs wind the slim web of road
until it flattens out into brush country.
Horses graze close to the Tea Rooms
where theres hot food and a fire.
This valley less up close
less imposing than the view
from the top plateau suggests.
On the way back up echoes
of parrots and lyre.
The weather ominous as feathers
float with the snowfall when birds
lift from the trees and are gone.
vi.
Skyways in the old adobe home fire
warms flesh while the heart
beats slow and the small 'i' wonders
'where exactly in this anatomy
do wings fit?' In the cerebellum,
which itself feels nothing
synapses spark and push
memorys sharp edges
into tissue of the heart
or the head with no reply.
It makes no difference, what
the small 'i' decides - as just
because they can, birds will
stretch out their wings and fly.
--
