last november weekend

The dream of shaking

night from branches

of the invisible

orchard, breaks

loose the tide between

broken

land and open sky. Your

casual stance erupts

silently across

my fragmented synapses with

a sound of drunken seagulls crying.

And the question brought out of this, is

a whisper lost

on the long, black breeze tunnelling

its way through

earth, through water, uncertain if the end is

in

the going or

the coming of the light