Walking along the old plain passages of the sky,

you hold the air, hang your chalking talons

In the lair of the sky-sand gyre;

the peregrin’s dive

And letters are left there, to cycle the wind

And carve and curve to converge the world

While I circle

the core of things;

fly wide, miss my mark

watch the centre, untether

like a feather tickles the blue

out of the wistful sky,
as it gently rocks its way down

only to fall and rest and form the nest

within which to become whole once more.

To gather in the wind, I gathered

and unfurl and hurl, headlong

into the power of a windswept mind,

that pushed to the edge, plummets

from the thermals of itself

to embrace the rush of the dive,

the seconds where you become


and hold the unknown,

for a little while.


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