I am afraid of flooding the mind
too suddenly with images
letting these black rooks
flap in their myriads cawing
to some roost festival, claws
clutching at midnight twigs
half budded only, green tips
coming slowly to the sun.
What have I done that suddenly
emerging to the ice-sky's glare
these figurines
take life, gyrate,
kaleidoscope and waltz
clashing their cymbals, omens
of bird flights arched
under heaven.
Arch me outwards now high in the spinning sky
no more still centre in a turning world
trajectory despatched no destination beyond the sun;
light fades yet glows; stars pass,
a coalescence of speed and time;
so many worlds outwards from our own,
no goal beyond the seeking eye
returning to the inward vision.