Literary Vegan

There is water on the wind; making me feel I'm anywhere but the city — that Cornwall cliff with the Highland cows or about to swim wild It is still September  and I sit, legs up on the chair on the edge of elements  a little longer.

He's out at height— the red kite,  talons unchangeable. But at that altitude, poets could rename him; a bat-thorn black tattoo on cloud-bonded skin, feathers long gone, wyvern.

The wind isn't speaking today. Clouds have patched-up the sky. It is not a day of finding-out things. But it is the day  a single sparrow took up the space  of the no-birds, when I felt one brush of sunlight on my neck and it felt Spring-kind from a long time ago. And I wrote letters into tomorrow's hands; empty is an invite  to place a beautiful word facing outwards. 

Chocolate powder mountains,  heaped — I could kick into the clouds. Yet sky sugar tastes slow — impatience eats miracles.

Sparrows bank the sun — a swirl-nest descent of song and embers; pebble-puff chests mass  on darkening green fingers. They call their sand sisters and brothers, each mouth smothering gold; so wonderfully loud as the dark downs — these raucous stars in skeleton-strong hands. 

I swim above my phantom in salt water, but I'm the weightless one and above me, doves and dragonflies hum blue choosing the direction of life with their wings. I know things — no more suspended place  meet me at the rustling leaves with all the movement  of forwards and lightness of answer.