here
old people
smartly dressed
wander the lanes
towards the small grey chapels in the trees
& i sat
in a graveyard
on a beach
on the westward edge of Europe
& the wind hit me &
took me
& Times Square
painted my face
in the broken blood vessels
& i once wore a cloud like a hat
& little lives lived,lost
in dank burrows
& the escape of the birds
& having that thing that follows you
& the isolation from everyone
& the terror in your knees
& the breaking in your throat
the shadow of trees between your shoulder-blades
birdsong buried in the wind
once i lay on my belly
on a beach
& stared at the sand
& thought if each of these grains
could be me
then why does the sky stay blue?
.
Niall Griffiths
Picture Caspar Friedrich