Wednesday, 30 December 2015

Still It Rains On


Still it rains on,
Buckling river rises -
Tonight the owls are silent.

 

Memory
Saturated earth cannot hold more.
Breath
At the tipping point, both this and that.


Swollen clay
Slick to the hands
Now raising a cup formed by process
Born of transference
A voice formed.


Forming a beat
A pulse of emptied intervals –
Crossing the meniscus between worlds.


So, you come to find source;
Touch the base,
the fine hem,
the original face.
Yet, time rolls within itself
Fractal light implosion
the falling veil,
the breath of vision.