against the wind

sliding out from the smooth linen

of slumber – gliding out like a motor-less glider

through the woven fibres of tunnels

of remembrances

floating in slow motion

arms extended like a five fingered albatross

clutching stray cloudlets caught in the

jagged folds of craggy stone-tipped histories


strewn with bits of skin, flesh, a tuft of feather, a scrap of limb,

a gasping beak, desperately flailing wing

torn tattered, bleeding, impaled on thorn-flowers –


waking up to today’s tenacity

trying out new wings against the wind