Under Glynde’s grey turbine I know I am irrelevant It is as if my chest’s creaks are now unsure ship timbers set grinding by lifts and turns of blown low pressures Her blades swoon over us in that signature revolution She asks of me a greater effort to stand for any time in her shadow...
I am entertained inside her lento lungs -
travelling alone and partly dusk-blind -
within her low suck of cooling breath .../
We stick to the leaf-kicked route -
a parting of the dry sea of leaves
cleared by dog-following boots .../