Composed several miles below the hill in question, upon my bed during Easter. 16th April 2010.

I strode across the quiv’ring fields and yet
saw not a prick of bramble twinge, impinge upon my vulnerable toe;
I could not hear the hissing wind’s echo,
Nature’s Mercury, ambivalent, goes.

Ezekiel and Tarantino tell
of shepherding, tyranny and righteous thoughts
as stray branches they waft in my synapses and indicate action
beyond the shady copse of poetry.

A hare careens, cutting curves in the fog,
absorbed within the safe shape of its fluctuating silhouette;
why can I not amble with such ease?
In the form, the leverets are devour’d.

Better hare than rabbit: I cannot fall
into a form. I still stumble, struggling, grappling with thin arms,
that reach out promisingly and snap.
Static.

Above, the clouds ignore my human husk
and down here there is only stale dirt, alien fingers of moss,
cold stones, insects crawling over
foetal Bones.