Clay fashioned into a semblance of a self. At first a form ready to be washed away as thinning earth colour back into the mire or to be baked into a figurative moment of permanence separated from its origins.
Is such a making independent of will or is it the fruit of a profound silence knowing only itself?
breath-gathered
dust
warping mirror
between the shapeless
and the shaped
an old man
no longer astonished
a yawning gulf
that the reflection
is him
The waking hour strips the world of an irretrievable gift. A gift so deeply intimate that it is only conceivable in the stumbling beginnings of aspirated words which may remain no more than glimpsed reflections. It bears the traces of the weightlessness of shadows from the timeless instant of the bringing forth of light by word alone.
anywhen breeze
the moon swans about
its reflections