SKY BURIAL

Sitting by the open window,
the hairs on my neck crackle.
heat is condensing in the garden
forcing the drowsy birds into the tree

I sit waiting for a thunderclap
to whip me across the ear
or lightning to split my eyes

At first, nothing comes, just more heat
I am utterly impatient, the cat plays
with my foot, but today
I am in no mood to play,
not with this hallowed task
of window-watching.

The dull weight of low cloud
gathers overhead, this could be it
something is about to happen!
Rain explodes on the earth,
It's glorious, like watching
The demolishing of a skyscraper,
Bricks burst against the gravel
The world rushes down the pane

I gather up the pen, I am ready
ready to loose the ink
upon the page, fill this
blankness with bruises
but the hand clamps
but the head mists in cloud

I push on, sweet wet soil fills my nose,
Droplets cling to the sycamore
like beads of light, but no -
the link between hand and pen
remains broken, no connection
I might as well be holding a daffodil
or a pigeon's foot.

I glare at the black uniball
but it is completely indifferent.
I swap hands try to make a link
the other's no good, a fat punk
asleep at the back of the classroom
sloping off the side of his chair
I wrestle the bastard onto the desk
hammer him with my knuckles
but he just plays dead

This is enough,
I take up the A4 sheet
and hold it out the window
rain trickles down my hand
onto the page, it grows heavier

I feel like a superstitious father
sacrificing his newborn to a sea god
but no, it's just a piece of paper
stained by the invisible work of the rain

Eg.

Leather hens bash heads
against the coop doors
fused shut, grim things
a dumb desire to mate
under the marrow of barnlight
but there's just no getting out

o holy egg, plopped forth
from magical loins, mottled
flecks of mahogany, a dusting
of arse-feather, rolling down
chicken mesh, already cooling
in the barn's offal gloom

No cluck from these hollowbones
shredding their feathers, this mad preen -
scratching, scoring their own skin - why?
Art thou bored? Frustrated? But you
Have your own space, you have food?
This is more than most, better than many.
Be thankful you are not impaled sisters,
stuffed in ovens or rotating on a spit.

Wingblades like the bars of cages.
Thin. Clipped. Not made for flight. 

COLD HALLS

cold halls of the ceanothus
plundered by humming bees
I get in close, take an eye full
Plant sticks out its purpled globes
Slick with dust
Burdened by their load, they seem
too heavy to fly these furious photons
Stumbling through the breeze
That fence, shade can’t even hold

SISYPHUS, REVISITED

And on his muscle bursting
Journey up from that muddy basin
Skidding and cursing his labour
His tenseness calcifying
Chalked up in white pain
Over basalt, limestone, granite
He came to the apex
For a moment, he looked out
Over the whole majesty of the land
Light playing over the green fields
Light rolling over the turquoise water
He forgot his task, but dimly
remembered he had one
And began shuffling
his trouble back down
The load somewhat bearable
The journey somewhat lighter