I use charts, dividers and a compass
split horizons and trace the hidden channel
that runs through core, crust, rock:

above it the sun is hooking clouds,
blanketing them. It narrows, releases a spit of light
that shoots from the centre.

I tug the underside of rays, push a cleat between
us and the stars so we don’t rattle in our hold -
weave a mattress from streaks of cirrus

that’s only fit for lovers. We sleep
with these illusions above our bed giving no credit
to the night-time; its arena cannot contain us.

We haul ourselves through the sky’s loose skin:
our bodies road maps, navigational points,
sprawled like a patchwork of cotton and tiny loops.



From Snow Child, Pindrop Press

◄ I learn this from him

Room ►


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Abegail Morley

Tue 22nd May 2012 10:09

Thanks so much for commenting. Maybe it's not too late to be a sailor...

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Greg Freeman

Tue 22nd May 2012 09:00

Enjoyed this accomplished work. Always wanted to be a sailor myself; nothing too ambitious, just nosing in and out of rivers and creeks.

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