is one of a mass of primates...


Despair - 

low grade, worming, 

not fatal:


A relentless sense of loss

shadowed behind the heart.

Something I've become


accustomed to - 

heaviness, a sighing in the veins,

an immutability lost to articulation


keeping me apart.



The mass effect of it,

a petrification, a pulling nervosa 

that harries each landscape.


This quiet, coiled up grief

that stays, still weighs

despite the passing of years, the


distance from one life and 

inevitably, this other.

I am away,





But I will,

I have decided,

I will plod towards


the quivering murmurations of light.

I will inhale

emanations of loamy earth.


I will heave my way forward

until I disappear beneath myself

or lift up, like a heron from the field,


into the crumbling grey mist.


- kc