Playful, wilfully strong winds
That recently raked the long-dead, cold ash seas
Of January’s long-dark moon of passion
Snap open, draw out a banner I
Have only seen in dreamscapes:
A dark grail framed by shooting stars;
Now lift a jackdaw effortlessly
And fling it across the arcs
Of playground world and
New-opened, wide blue envelope.
There’s a harsh, savage-code joy scream
Torn from the bird’s bandit throat;
“You ain’t going to be born again,
Turn away from your second-chances illusion
And be all of the selves you need to be
Before your bright rainbow burns only
Slow, old gold-treasure memories.
Find the garden in the desert,
The music in the river,
The time beyond the clock.”
