I still haven’t surfaced from antiquity. If anyone is going to understand why, it’s the Oracle.
Wind blows bare from pole to pole,
playing dark red, wine red, blood and poppy red
music with the bones of the trees,
and the moon sleeps in the sky,
rocked in a cradle of stars.
Time was we worshiped
the waxing and waning
of the tidal streams, the rising of milk,
sources and rushing watercourses,
the raw cutting shoots of spring.
We swim now in other seas,
where the sun shines relentlessly,
beauty is in the glitter of diamonds,
the wealth of bank vaults
and injections beneath the skin.
I watch the bud tips,
listen to the singing,
cling to these swaying branches,
good enough for white blossom
and the fluttering of blackbirds.