Category: Poetry

This wind-tunnel world
waters the eyes
whilst deep-time, wild sentinels
are tickled by ferns fingers,

When I landed
in the present
the grass was waist-high,
woven with yellow,

Come down,
Every ounce of you is filled with fire
See, through tears
Tattered hands receive you

It is true that to a certain extent
that we know ourselves
through the eyes of others..

In the imprint of receded tides
new topographies reveal
replenished pools
of orange stars…