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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