Until the revolution
I will be following, struggling after the light
          that's over the horizon

the you that never leaves me,
          never finds me
and has no track or colour

yet you are passing through so much
          journeying so far
to send a glow from cell to cell

in the amber glare of a tiger's eye
          as it burns through the grins and masks
of detached privilege

in the churning glaucous sheens
          that roll from the fluke of the humpback whale
as it plummets deep

beyond what cannot plunge or enter.
          While we who float,
like dark glass bottles,

stuffed with promotions, vouchers, slogans,
          still dully glimmer
in the beam of your unseen star.

So this night demands full voice.
           Then listen: I'm thirty stories up
and looking over a swollen highway –

and I'm numbing out beneath the roar
of one of a thousand herds of cars
as they grind on from debt to promise

while the southern continent burns
and the air thickens into bitterness
and a swarm of hungry zeroes stings my brain.

Killing a little, day by day.

So what can turn, still must.

A woman once would hold my head
          until some sense came drifting back
on threads of rain and sky and trees

She too is gone. Of course.

But since I no longer search for justice
I will walk the woods
          in these shortening days

and let those fine threads extend
between roots I cannot name
          and a canopy beyond stark fact

devote them to a rising heart
          so they might form a nest
among what's been trashed and must yet come to be.

So a ragged spirit can settle there -
           and bravely chirp a canticle
to the horizon that keeps on dancing.

Posted: Mon 20 Jul, 2020