Cairn, 2019: Paper

It is not first words.
Nor any we have spoken.
But that we may, hoping . . .

* * *

I am lost in this world,
in all the worlds within
in all the words spoken
the storm they ride,
their wind.

But at any moment
may forget the whirl,
remember silent arbour,
rooted anchorage,
quite still.

Whether in clearing
on wood path
or forest full grown.

Waking to tree sense,
breeze through my leaves,
xylem flowing
transpiration free.

I hear the birds singing,
a tune to the day.
Their songs my book of hours,
months, years, nights, days.

Sound waves at sea
on the sonic sound-all.
I sway to their themes,
in the wind of my fall,
silent and knowing
there is no need for more.

Until I come to, share this,
trail golden leaves
for a few breaths spoken,
before they’re scattered,
guttered, senseless, blown.

* * *

For what am I hoping
with these, my tokens . . . 

A. H / K. H-H (17th October 2016)


  the trees believe in ground in sky a murmuring of leaves sing life they calm me as they take the wind sail me back toward myself allow trunk whispered secrets knitted into wooden containment then still they wait, they always will, their will is to abide my whisper dreamt that then I’d know the…


This poem was published on Disability Arts Online some time ago now – highlighting it – also indirectly influenced by a season of Tarkovsky’s films at the cinema, explained in an introduction (skip that as you please, sometimes I think of asking that part to be deleted): Paper It is to be included in my…