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Stars Rocks Clouds

Even Cancer’s sign is an illusion

an apparent constellation whose

bright stars once passed

in their slow celestial waltz

jabbing needles of ancient light

without synchronicity

into our night sky


where metastatic stars

white as bone

seed across the black dome

some receding, some burning out

before we see the light

that proclaims them in their prime.




Massive sedimentary slabs

line this carved-out gully

a sliced loaf of sandstone

laid down season on season

all obliquely shoved up

at a jaunty tilt to tease

at what past ruptures

the crust has suffered


and over here, pancakes stack

against the sculpting waves

while inland stand caverns

of slow hollowed limestone.




Now I wonder at these clouds

these great wet clods of sky       

how they hold together

to float in such fabulous forms


tonnes of droplets undispersed

high and wistful here

but thunderous over that range

water that takes the light from white

through bruise to bouquet shades

that shift with the late sun’s slant.




And you, too

stratified in mood and mind

taking shape through life and tide

you too

host a singularity


of burnished golden cirrus

diffracting colour from our sun

where old light fades

while love still finds

fresh spark in cyclic clouds

of dust and water


the patterned self

so soon to scatter.


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