It Poem by Peter Pacey

This getting out of your own way is tricky
You can't absent yourself, quite
Nor busy yourself too much in the actual spot
What I must do is listen
The golden song is there like radio
And we can tune ourselves.

Hover now on the edge of bathos
As a hawk stalls on the upward curve
Curse the hawk with thought
And watch him tumble to the ground, undone.
Like practiced Terpsichore we must be unaware
To pluck the graceful moment out of still air.

31/3/2011