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.

<<Previous l Next>>