Across the Water

Man hangs, happily distracted,

From a dream of smoke.

In another world; his

Friend is at one end

Of a fight-tense line.

Between them a woman whose

Skeleton is a charity-shop stool frame.

Across the smooth water

A thin stick holds up a man.

Me? I’m here; balancing unsteadily

On a reflection that shifts and

Cannot possibly be me

I’m not that colour, I’m not

That rigid, that tired, don’t

Look as old as the water

So faithlessly shows.

Harrier

 

Delightful dry-wind friend,

White-winged day ghost –

Feathers cut from polished core of

Purest cumulus, sewn onto galleon jib sheets:

Spirit of summer-new.

Swimming powerfully through

Thick purple and lemon evening

Moor-top strata skies while,

Way below and way behind,

Earth and Heaven shiver with ecstasy.