Like a stone ballerina,
Stands the lightness of centuries
With roots in ranges and valleys
draining an ocean of sanguine leaves
Sieving time with paper fingers
in submission to winds
A companion, holding firm on rigid rock
A restless monument in the maelstrom
A simple great mass
The full moon over Blackheath dusk
is a hole
Cut through to daylight
Reflecting tweed and steam and an old mans ears
on the summit of my young London years.
A perfect waiting window above the suburbs
Following but not moving
Watching without eyes
In Grandma’s comet catching skies
A monastic bell clear through thick mountain mist
Hillsides in layers emerging
A whale rears through the surf surge sunset
Aeroplanes and cranes crowding veiled light in the siren strewn city.
When bare trees mark horizons
Will I remember sky smeared peach wheat fields?