Black Rooks

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.