There is no flat here
no stillness
curves constant
lines gouged, lets say snow lines
and a light that sears spears and opens vast landscapes
as crisp and as sharp as our consciousness
How dangerous is this living
how it makes us scream
too clear, too white, too high too wide
yet we throw ourselves against it
stoning ourselves on its beauty
I wrap its whiteness round me
knowing I am inside you
wriggle in the hot muffled dampness sheltered from the numbing cold
curled round your log fire
listening to the storm outside
Then times occur
when the mountain is poised
held above the lamb clouds
stillness returns
and our vastness becomes manifest
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem