Jig Walk

JIG WALK

When you have no one to talk to
you talk to yourself
and the imaginary becomes the real.

In a nest of small hills
sounds of the railway resonate
at once in a skylight window.

Having come so far to find peace
you hate its stillness
and imagine shouting.

In a 4 am window
the waves of bird sound
fill the jaws of parliament.

In a garden full of blossoming bows
upon a river, in a green meadow
there as sweetness evermore as now.

I dreamed that I was thrown there
by a will held
in the grip of self-estrangement.

A soft noise in concord with songs aloft
thoughts held by small plants with golden threads
pull apart as my mouth opens.