Iain Britton

 

This Weight of Crushing Quietness

 

 This weight of crushing quietness,

   I give the morning star.

 

 This night I’ve been amongst trees,

   been to the lake,

 

 steaming in its stillness,

   stood in meditation upon a silvered bank and

 

 heard the deep-throated

   sounds of logging trucks,

 

 the indigestible distraction of a road’s closeness

   dimmed by darkness.

 

 In my hands

   I see the veins of a city and

 

 sometimes those veins open up and bleed for a sun

   which rolls effortlessly, like a ball

 

 across multi-faceted kingdoms

of U-shaped streets.

 

 My hands read like a map and like a map I

   snap them shut,

 

 annihilating thoughts, a clairvoyant’s interest

   in the translucency of my skin.

 

 At Orere Falls, a girl swings high,

   leaning into clouds. A woman

 

 records peace in spaciousness. I feel

   painted into a picture. We

  

practise selective discrimination,

   picking the wild flowers only.

  

At the transference of a suggestion,

   my hands begin to open.

 

 

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Sentinel Poetry (Online) #43  - June 2006. ISSN 1479-425X

The International Journal of Poetry & Graphics...since 2002. Editor: Amatoritsero Ede

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