Tuesday, 20 November 2012



At last the coal is in the grain of my fingers
and under my nails and the smoke works
into the roots of my hair
and the deep crispness of the young day new
and so slightly raw tingling like scratched skin
makes the morning’s darkness no so
and the leaves have been so burning as they fell so
sun and fire and age old red against the dew cleaned green
not yet made mulch by tramping feet
I could weep at it the joy the joy
the joy and the moon burns
with the leaves colours humming and singing
softly in the air it rises up
with stars and planets and everything is
everything is everything

and at last my hand holds an axe and my heels
a swiftness waiting lifting in my limbs and my hand
holds a leaf holds a water droplet
in the crease of its spine supple yet
supple yet the mist which holds
the springing deer the bleakness blue and green and brown
the washed land the pressed earth holds

warmth in my palmprint in my palm 
the lines of my finger
the lines of my father
the fire of the falling leaves

November 2012

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