The Perfect Poem

 

The poem has a descant voice;

born of beautiful words,

it flows, whirls high above them.

Even when the meaning is opaque

it sings the song

the words are breathing into being.

 

Rain has stolen the plants

from my garden

leaving their colours

flowing unconfined

finding fresh courses

blending into new

carrying my eyes

oarless

over uncharted waterways

I Am

 

Silence as in a fish tank;

life laps to the walls

but in here almost tangible;

in this unstirred air.

In the stained glass gloaming

of this cathedral,

conscious of my own presence;

senses magnified.

Size, minute

inside this architecture,

colossal within my own frame

as standing beneath the stars;

I am

infinitesimal but integral.