I was dragged back into the world
Filled to the brim with pollen
And every time I opened my mouth
Pollen drifted out in a floating stream

Walk past the wildflowers
Clinging to rusted railings
Looking out onto crumbling tarmac and car exhaust
Streets must be censored
They are overflowing with houses brimful to sky
With dysfunctional people
My suitcase grumbles at the dirt I am wheeling it over
Week by week these repeated journeys are wearing it thin

sky has been imagining slow swirling star patterns
mazing from cloud to cloud, star touching star
dreaming delicate points, faces like lace
floating through white soft silence

the screaming trees

I have only realised now how much
harder a woman has to fight for certainty
of her place
she may build her fine towers with intricate skill
but she has still to tackle
the man-made wall ahead of her

how her voice may be muted
so swift and with practiced efficiency
I was convinced by the messages sent
in the 90s of a new time arriving
separating away from what had gone before
where a woman could Be
what she is in her genuine form

without shame
without trickery
without bindings
without lines given to her to be spoken
as though they were her own

but I understand there are still
the same hindrances
being woven into the minds
of women at the stage of their forming

the same booby traps and banana peels
that were given to me and my generation
a tricky set of foolish beliefs
of what is
and what is not allowed

to go to a favoured man
to tell him what she has done
only to be dashed
at the base
questioning what she had to be so proud of

morning
and two crows chat on the field
listening carefully to eachother
and nodding in agreement
I stand on the edge
of crow world
where crows deftly bustle about their business
with a confidence of knowing who they are.
a confidence of self.
crow-self
crow
the meat eater
the tool user
the plan maker
the bolshy creature
the strong beaked
the loud mouthed
the watcher
the messy home maker
the communicator

from his skeletal perch
storm crow watches the stars fall.
he has seen this before, and knows
he will see it again

he sees patterns as they fall
he sees them weave together in the wind
like flocks of birds
before binding silently
to become part of the whole

his body becomes a bold silhouette

time is coming soon now, when storm crow will say to sky
it's time, to transform into a pregnant belly of ice
and shower us with your featherlight  star crystals 

storm crow inspects his territory, solemnly
places his nest in the fingers of a skeletal tree

sky has been imagining slow swirling star patterns

I have skimmed
the earth and dust
with my belly
crawled over rough ground
denied the truth
again and again
denied my existence
rejected my claims
proved my enemies correct
eaten my words
without speaking them
resisting their right to exist
shamed myself to sleep
comatose cataleptic
detached

the night voices
murmering low
sneaking through
silent blue

flicker louder on the fence
then jump back down
to the blue smoke pools

why is electricity birthed in the clouds?
How do clouds voice themselves
as if they were solid objects?

Thunder rattling out like an old cart on humpy ground.

when we are tired-hurt
we laugh like thousand year old smoke.
we laugh like smoke.
 

sitting at the bottom of an ocean
the light is blue
and the sounds are dark
its safe
but very blue
and no air

The copper tree blazes with vitality.
he knows his leaves are dying
and he will have to sleep soon
his fingers will grow stiff and cold
when they are gone

But he knows the painter
is repeating his life force
revealing brass copper and gold against timeless blue
The warmth of his soul
and the girl can't stop looking
at his golden spirit
His toes will stay warm under the ice
 

weaving together the seams of the sun
the sun to make a rainbow, make rain
the sun to dry my hair
the sun to gather the stars, its children
but not yet, not yet.

I show the pale flesh of my wrists 
listen to the swish of my veins

blood talks in streams and pools
talks in memories of slate

memories of bone and origin

I walk in dreamscape of lidded things

Birds see dogs as the ghosts of wolves; half-hunters with no kill-bite behind the growl.
kill-bite, that way the wild ones know, to take a neck between deft jaws and break it, quick.

Ground means danger, height means safe, water means safe.

Safe from ghost-wolves, from half-knowledge cats who think they are still kittens and know how to catch but not how to kill-bite.
Leaving brothers and sisters torn and useless. Unable to find mates, make nests, unable to multiply bird-nation.



Heavy leaves

a dyed dress

an old bra

cats' teeth

lost woman

always lost women

my whole body rocks to the base-beat of my core
when i lean on my knee
rock steady rhythm: strong, silent, solemn

my whole body rocks to the pump of my heart
see it slowly start

light in my room
glowing on far past it's time
travelling into the night
awake
when I should be at rest