stones from the beach by J.B. Pick
A bird's path crosses mine.
X marks the spot.
I call this cross a sign.
The bird does not.
Through these wild shapes
Does Shape shine forth:
An inner compass signs
The absolute North
Dead water from a tap.
Live water from a spring.
Dead country on a map -
Unusual boulder speaks.
Hawk in polluted air.
Something the eye seeks,
The rule of law
Why should I fail the gods to satisfy
The expectation of the man next door?
Put off the impossible because
The Thing Committee's meeting on the tenth?
The gods of course know well I cannot do
Whatever they agree I must.
Such dull considerations aren't their business -
Nothing happens by the rule of law.
By accident the truth shines out -
And accident becomes design.
Whose voice is asking questions,
and whose eyes will hunt
For clues that no one scattered on the ground?
A definition proves the presence of a lack -
To know our lostness may mean we are found.
Life has no boundaries
Weather moves with us
Whether or not we move.
"Whaur's your Johnnie Walker noo"?
(A barman, seen from the top of a bus, pouring a nameless whisky into a row of variously branded bottles)
He pours with bored and sober hand
From nameless bottles into brand.
So God's dark fountain brightness pours
Into this dream of mine and yours.
An argument of telephones
By robin's intimate distance valued -
Sudden window of a lost mansion
Startled into light.
More poetry from Winamop
Copyright reserved. Please do not reproduce without consent.