Greycroft

A blustery day. A thought is in the air.
Between the new grass and an older stirring,
the brush of a hardier seed, a Bronze Age silence,
are words I cannot catch. Like a gull wheeling, diving
low to the brown earth of a nearby field,
my mind alights elsewhere. I take my body
to the ring’s centre. One was buried once
beneath my feet. Is there a language skill
the earth can yield, to touch upon a current
that leaps from time itself, and bends the air,
awake to the not yet – beyond the instant?
I let my body take itself away
from grass-works old and new, to look back where
something is spoken. What is in the wind?