Blood Rush Poem by Adrian Flett

Suspended in the present
we float, probe crudely at the future;
locked in the now
wistfully we look back.


Relentless gravity pulls
to the grave.
Our counter is,
the tip of the green bud
the leading edge of the falcon's wing
the bow of the Viking's boat
creaming the sea,
to cleave it apart.


In the churn of the cleft water before the bow
in the wing tip turn of the falcon
in the wrinkled green curled bud
is the source.


In furnace heat flush of dross
so strong, surface memories
in a blood rush
of some primeval energy
bursting through to consciousness.


As an old strong memory,
some new exciting idea
or is it a part death,
a small death.
Each to be summed at the end.