reaching across, hand into the blackberry bush,

a walk from where we were down to the sea,

a small bay, of pebbles & the incoming swell of the water,

listening for the rhythm, as if it might be the key to writing,

the measure of waves find its way into the words,

a world for the ear alone, with your back to the woods

and the winding path, the press of roots and stones

up from the earth, that obsession with being so far from,

the brush with it, the deep grass against your calves,

a small boy, that pause before a leaf, held up to the light,

with your eye for the water before you, now,

at this moment of remembering, descending,

the sound at your feet, the edge where the words were,

first words, for the way down, for the path,

for reaching out to the fruit, for lifting it

at last, to your lips

this is me, my space spread before me, every fear, every

failed thought, every fault, of ordering the confusion born to,

and the light in from the window, left open to let the wind in,

and there’s another thing, in from the distance, (un)dreamt of,

the numbered days, as the tree climbs, a limb at a time:

there sat with me once, a lust, such, as would lift me from a life

denied, a world so wet as I would drown by breathing it, as bad

a dream as being a thing, in nowhere but the water, swept,

persistent, by the tide, as item, among the multitude, the many

dead, and the still to die, as had to, to be found in the deep,

ungrounded, as soundless mouths opening and opening:

and I, frightened, cried out, and drew away from the shore, to sit

with the sand, staring back at the sea swelling without me, one less,

for a while, to be lost and foregone, or drift sucked dry by the sun,

but did not stay, a sense of something sleepless drew me further on,

of a slow yes, sudden come, to find a way, wandering with every

bone intact, every tribute of the flesh paid up, to find a place,

a clearing for the mind, to be alone with the wind, and the window

open: this is me now, my space spread out, the light is mine:

and the same bare tree beyond, waving against the dark

he gathers nothing as he goes, back from his travels,

has no mind, but to sit in silence, stare

there, at the distance done, to be undone,

as if to recover from, the multitude of miles,

field of faces seen, the millionfold eyes

reflected and reflecting, though closed in his:

he comes and goes with the light, from the height

of time to the unticked depths, deep in him,

but tries, when night, to trace a line, from when

he left, find the thread he held to, to the last,

this last, this pause for the familiar, the favourite

place to be, to be beside the lamp again, lit

to remind him from whence he came, once:

from where he went to the door, sworn

to stay away, to wander wherever the thread led,

the fragile line defined, to tread every edge

drawn to, heed every whisper to open the world,

every twist of amaze, turn of the well-trod earth,

to peer into every dark lane of the labyrinth:

back from there, no mind but for this brief repose,

this gathering of nothing, as he goes