MIRAGE

He sits

crosslegg'd

under the only tree for miles,

his skull full, dizzy

on the unmoving

deserted

scape

of a dry day which splits and burns into

view.

Highflying

kites draw shimmering circles,

ringing round a giantblue dome,

falling into their own hollow spiral of sky,

to swoop against

his lone, smoke

silence:

He sits

crosslegg'd

under the only tree for miles.

RW, first draft, April 1967, latest draft, 15.XII.92.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013