THOUGHTS FROM THE OVERGROWTH

I wanted to bring you a delicate wisp of the outside world.

Sounds like liquid trickling metal beads, half mercury, half amber.

Shaped from the air of my garden by the Goldfinches you could never see.

I wanted to bring you the light that had passed unaltered through the perfect crystal on my hallway shelf.

Only to be startled into colour by a bubble of water trapped in its heart.

I wanted to bring you air.

A parcel of air, scented with air, diluted with air.

And full of the beautiful impurities of the world.

Your vision had become heavy with the shadow of stones.

Shingle crunched in your ears.

Inadvertently, I brought you a measure of your life.

The scented pebbles, scarcely noticed out of doors.

Scattered around your living room.

Recording by their depth and distribution.

The opening of windows and then, only of doors.

When i returned to your house that day.

Before i found the unmade bed.

The sheets clumsily folded back in your own darkness.

I opened the door to a creeping shifting bank of scree

and sank until it held my legs and presses my lungs

and groping there for air, for light, for company.

Far beneath our keenest sight, while tangling with the moving air

and the Goldfinches in swooping flight.