I trace the outline, cliffs that by some miracle of
violence have turned to an autumn of silvering
scars.
Hypnotic depths of milky blue from tear around
the death-drop. Life-buoys like irrelevant self-
conscious sentinels issue warnings for unwary
wanderers.
Pigeons pirouette in the updraft, invisible threads
spring out, join them within inches. The kick, the
turn, the wheels. In step, companions in an
uncomplicated joy.
I chuckle.
Out here God is dancing in emptiness, stopped to
the waist, amongst us as provocateur, as jester, as
holy mischief-maker.
And the ink laden clouds bleed alabaster
fragments.