Sunday, 29 July 2012


In the bright blue air balloon,
filled with alleyways and square niches
where the city escaped its own shadows,
in a nest of rope and wooden intent
I wrestled with the wind.

Its billowing mass obscured
the truth that flight is a fancy best left to birds -
the basket no true cave, never a rest
but a refuge that lingered until reality
ground me again.

Birds fly whenever they wish,
lift and spread, leap, find the places where the wind
does battle with its inner voices,
and travel.

I must always land and walk for weeks,
my eyes littered with the sights
of men as ants and tress as small
as toothpicks, so that conversation is difficult –
I always want to shout.

The  memory
of the sound wind makes when the earth
falls far away
separates me from those who would, perhaps,
love me if they could.

On Sundays, I spread the balloon, limp
as a freshly killed dove,
and then watch the inflation,
feel the lurch -
I am away again; my mind desperate
not to let the knowledge of the landing
back in.

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