Only this moment. Storms threaten and do not arrive. Behind my eyelids
lightning drags its nails down the sky. The absence of thunder is today my
teacher. The young buzzards practise sopranino voices. When the beakfull magpie came in
earlier she had a whole grass snake coiled across her back under her wings and
around her tail. Stab stab stab in the east-wind glittery light. Last night in
the tunnel of dusk right above my head two tawny owls played tag in the oak
branches. Lower, by the brook, a pair of mateless snipe drummed to each other,
one a semi-tone higher than the other. Where I stand, beneath my gritty bare
feet a whole invisible arterial network coils and uncoils, exchanging light and
dark and earth and rainfall, death and birth overlapping and interpenetrating
without end, without interruption or interrogation, without despair. I think
the air too is full of arterial coilings. And I like everything am the fulcrum
of this moment’s watching itself before dissolution into a past that never was
and a future that never will be.
©Roselle Angwin
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