It’s of the bird call
The bruising of wind, the pasted clouds, the promise of mountains
On a plane that curves infinitely backwards
the way years seem to bend over themselves
in a constant recurrence of voices
and objects and places and dreams
dredged up from the bottomless sea of ourselves
we wished to vault over once.
But now, again, the birds call,
The years move under us.
(1 January 2016)