Obscurations

April 18th

After that far off raw descending motion
of scarlet scalding boldly
sleep.
all plans by ash
exhausted, forced
to nought as nowhere horses.
And as you fall you know
The sky
is still,
as meditation.
Mediation with the round white hare.
singular stars untouched again
all fingers to themselves
Here is a well of depth unending -
Up to day – now cleanly rising.
not shrunken and not marked with timing,
Sun shoulders into fine proximity.
as birds are royal once more
and curve like mirrors
over the greening grass.

Dreams lip the sky.
To crest it
just today
Fantastic
Imagination creviced
to the clouds
by reams of molten colour
beeswax, brazen,
pouring from possibility
to make a new blue ground.
a sound of nothing and extent
of human cockle reach.

And then you water - straighter,
herbs in boxes
tiny pluses
helix seeds
and greedy-leaved
elope with air,
their daylight flare
and now not banked by roaring
crowds of hover-clouds.
But heading straight to straight to right on blue

I think your breath, this day of granted,
day of granite, daylight grounded
is intrinsic, granted you're not stranded
or abandoned you are home and not
expanded to an airport ill and floundered
you're not sleeping in a sacking do not wake
to plastic cracking and lucky so you know
the purity of clouds not now below.

And for the stranded out you pity cry
only you cannot help but
Rub the opal sky.
Walk to yourself, and speak with elm-tree stealth
about maintaining this delusion of confusion
and this one-off selfish
timely-fine solution
to the far-off flight deck problem of extinction.

each plane trip is a blessing that
ensures us with a longer store of time
crests leaking out behind us in white coils
ghastly stamped upon a sanctuary
and leaving us whey-faced, wheezing.

And yet you fly when frequent, for you also
want to make your mark upon a spinning world
and hold hands with companions so and lovers
So travel is denigrated, commiserated, emaciated to
a noughts and crosses gouging of the stars.

You think it should have been,
a shy approach to tulips and sore feet.

A mustering of courage, and a shouldering of
nights of wolves.

a final thawing seeking fire through pawing
at the earth and seeing
primroses roaring
at the peeping sun.

So yes you fly when frequent, and you planned
next month to visit loved ones, kings and queens.
but just now, in excuse of light and lava,
You're quite content to know
the smell of distance
like a dusty fox
and dig as if the folded universe has time to watch.

And then to deepening blasts that shroud the sky, returning to it
endless blue and us to feet you genuflect.

These are our red red gods.