You, My Spirit
A bird flies the open sky.
Sailing, gliding with defining edges.
The wind catches the feathers,
and still afloat this bird flies on.
The trees they are adorned,
By brilliant sunset,
Beauty and lightness.
The bird that was still is,
But yet no more, and
That in is present form,
The call of the wild,
Is its truth and mercy.
The changing of clouds and trees,
The figurement of imaginary beauty,
a stillness that is not captured by our eyes.
And my spirit flies.
(Thursday 27 April 2006, Bolton, UK)