Bent with gentle heaviness, the
bald head of earth, explained in yellow light,
gets licked to life again. The sea looks white,
like gnawed skin ; the wrinkled sand feels cold.
This is the end of night : and from its sleep,
whose sweet corruption burns me like a match
just struck, the world is laboured out. A patch
of peachy cloud turns pale. I shiver. Deep,
deep beyond the air where words, ideas
and minds are kept convinced, I only see
the churning of great planets – one with me,
the rest without. And then the sun appears
and all the earth is warm. And even I
applaud, with half a smile, the bloodless sky.
(This poem appears by kind permission
of the author.)