As a child
I died
and was raised up
once again.

On the gasp of northerlies
pressing air into lungs
too shocked to inhale.

I lay amongst the tussock
and dreamt the sky
would stop flashing past
the clouds scudding
into the dip of the ocean swell

only to sink
regardless
of my hands beseeching.

I tried to catch the sky
and wrap it in the warmth
of a wind cheaters clutch.

So many things
my fingers could not grip

the day

the
layers
of time
I was supposed to care for
and nurture
into the proper contours

Each thing
will follow its course
but I stood outside the flow
and built sand dams
to hold the future.

There was a cypress pine
I called sanctuary

Beneath a canopy of dry sweet
cakes
and golden dark tea stains
that spoke of goblins
and capricious spirits

I was hewn
from the open wound
of cut wood

The chips flying
ripping awareness into eyes
lowered and averted

The bark stripped away
to expose pulped
belief

We knew wrong
all of us
who resided within
the gnarled branches

We saw it
clearly in the bleeding sap and
the brittle leaves turned
brown with death