Going up to an idea of north*
to house-sit, seeking reclusion
surrounded by mountains and clear water.
The camera is loaded with big
bullets of light. I’ll use the ice
(I hope there’s a frost), bracken,
the brimming dish as target practice.
Packed and ready, cigars and books.
Have remembered my eagle magnet,
said a prayer to the patron saint
of cloudlessness and stolen moments.
Though if there is any
robbing to be done
it will be by me
daylight of it’s easiness,
the wind of open sails,
wings. Comets and ghosts
of the dark, airwaves
from radios and space
Let me lie in a seven-day grave
stashed in harmony with the soil,
its limbless motion
roots, boots, fallen apples
as the family of silences next door
lip-read the candlelight, pull the curtains
and at the third stroke mute the speaking clock.
* stolen from the first instalment of Glenn Gould’s Solitude Trilogy
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