That
stuff
I
am not of that stuff
that
tears around
craving
gain and advantage
and
flies close to the ground
knocking
weather vanes
from
churches
and
blowing the odd old tree down
peeling
rooftiles from houses
and
kicking in doors
in
pursuit of that craving
anything
will do
it
will fly out to sea
it
will obscure the moon
and
destroy every living thing
under
the sun
I
am not of that stuff I am cold
like
the breeze
that
trickles down the mountainside
and
ripples in streams
it
seeks ponds in their stillness
and
clouds in their form
it
seeks peace
to
all purposes
and
brings light to the dawn
To
the moon
The
moon is full tonight and my anxiety
rises
up to greet the old girl's frown
the
look of yellowed shock as I approach her
bids
me caution as I slow me down
I
am afraid she looks like she might swallow me
whole
and leave my bones for lunar dust
as
I start to sing in earthly harmonies
a
calm descends across her puckered crust
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