A Hunger

It's as if some truth's been missed, hidden
in particles of gabbro or the black plug of basalt;
or there's a thought I can't find, an absence
like deer beyond the next hill,
tracks in the peat the only clue.

It leaves me hungry, eager to dig down,
bury my face in soil, rub grit in my brain
till it bleeds insight. Old penitents
would flog themselves, the sugars
in the blood inducing trance.
I want to come back from a new idea
changed, the balance tipped
and equilibrium found again but this time
with a slight quiver as if some
aftershock still rumbled on,
as if there were no time left and it didn't matter.

The sea moves, rock weathers, flowers –
tormentil, orchid, eyebright –
shake in the wind whether or not we name them.

(from Another Place)

© Mike Barlow