The Surface

Here, the terrain is folded glass grass,
opaque in the open meadow sunshine blast,
as mellow in the open grassland beyond,
and high the cloud-clusters, opal-firing dragonfly
pollinated stemens, loose the cannon and send
their intended cargo into air, as bullfinch

stands and delivers his song, the sparrow hawk
soars overhead, talons ready, whilst
the juicy glow-worm squirms in the reeds,
the hawk knows the trick, knows the bullfinch,
senses his moment, plucks the air,
takes his share, to divide among young.

And mother sun looms on the horizon,
the surface broken, the mountain cragged,
the sea an open wound, gashed into the world,
magma beneath, the cliff-face above,
obstacles for the human heart, buried beneath,
and low swings the empty hand,
yearning for nothingness.