I hang in the spaces between canopies
and when I pause for breath it hits me -
the total silence. Even my mental chatter
vanishes. Just me and these ancient beings
and the rain they filter from the fog
dripping on my glistening skin.
I glide in a wordless mist. All that holds me
to the spinning planet is a little rope.
I start to soar as if the needles sprouted feathers,
my muscles tensed for flight. And when I land
it’s on a hanging garden of fern-mats
ninety metres high, to kneel on its altar.
Every dip into the chalice of a sky pool
yields an unknown species. Everything is dawn-new.
From The Rialto No 65 (Summer 2008)