I am wearing my life
like the gecko dons its skin –
ready to split at a moment’s notice
and leave all behind in a heap.
just floated serene and lonely
on coffee-brown water that lapped at my raft, unfelt.
I was not so much frightened as stricken with awe –
full of no earthly sensation
but the rushing of time, propelling me on and on.
Then at some exact moment – the slate horizon
cracked like a splintering egg-shell
and strange orange light bled through the fissures of dark.
It was not yet my time.
I refuse to vanish or set
when gravity tugs me to earth
in a blaze of gore or glory –
to wane to nothingness beyond
a slice of ashen promise –
And I will not slide quietly by
a masculine smothering of power –
for the damage will already be done.
Have you seen how moonlight blazes so hard
it slips beyond any brute shadow?
(Painting: Victor Florence Pollett)
This is the womb of the world
where two seas collide
at a hammock of land
and bony rocks arch
in the jet blood-black spray. Three
mythical crone stones –
who see what sharp lips never
tell – still watch through
their ageless snake hair for the
goings of they that
once crawled from their legs in the
primeval salt-dawn of time.