21/05/2017 § Leave a comment

I am walking atop a mountain of grey slate.
I imagine the world turning and the mountain atop of me
a million tons of rock I would be pressed into a pebble
less than a pebble a speck of dust
my mother could hold and call -my name-
we are walking through mist and I am told
this is not mist this is cloud we walk through
clouds aeroplanes and birds fly through
we don’t belong here
they used to believe heaven was in these clouds
and I am looking for a golden harp
maybe it is here because
notes are plucked by cloud water
trickling through rocks

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