Whether it’s a bouldering sheep
or a raw snow-bone,
at this distance all is tantalising
and inconclusive. Either way,
there’s a silver flaw in your best eye,
a speck of ore, a day-star.
Your other is flecked with floaters,
brimful with half-formed tears
gelled from the wind.
Either way, whatever it is
slides off the precipice
as soon as you shift your gaze.
This guttural rain falls at exactly
45 degrees; your gust-scuppered hood
swells in vacant optimism.
A wet head. A cold head
adrift somewhere between
Magnetic North and True North,
wobbling at the centre
of a tiny antique compass.
Image: “Grindelwald First” by Chris Wee, licensed under CC 2.0.
Often my poems end up looking for a feeling or a way of being that is essentially pointless – as in, has no output or goal. That seems to be happening here, as we wander and wonder about the idea of exploring for no particular reason. One of the paradoxes of pointlessness is that it delivers us (into) an odd sort of freedom: this is a no-one’s land where I like to go and look for poems and hope to meet you there too. .