Mike Dickman
***
near the crest of the rise

there is an ancient signpost,

it's foot firmly bedded in a round

moss-encrusted sconce.


whatever the legend it once bore,

that's gone now

and,

alone and incongrous,

it stands -


an unwavering finger pointing at the sky.

deer & rabbit paths,

the vestiges of a road,

are all that lead there...


bird-tracks all that lead away...


the wood whispers to the circular winds,

singing ancient cyphers

hierogylphed by insect, weather & time:


"you came as you might," it seems to say.

"go where you will."
***

***
***

***
light

on motionless water

gibbous
moon

the lurch

of the pontoon-jetty beneath the feet

the unexpected
arc of rowed boat

dancing
slow circles

around you

my hands
touching the air

your spark of skin

your hair
***