A darkness whirling
through woodland
up and over carved rock
into the central currents,
a heroic severity of will
breaking on the cliffs,
pulling down detritus
to a fluid, feral fate —
these bodies, streaming,
lining the haphazard trees
lean and bare and open:
lions in a field of lions,
and so obviously
meant to wander
and run and leap
through the night and
past the morning light,
shoulders burnt brown
now golden and great
in a whirling dawn.
Comments