I have been here before.
The breathtaking edge,
the swifts’ swoops and sprees,
the river’s fast lane binge through the gorge.
The ravenous light.
Hundreds of years heal nothing
by plying walls of frugal stone
against this sheer drop.
Here goes the heart abseiling
down to the wolves of wanting.
There it goes full of itself,
untrained, unlearned, to the rock bottom
and the beadledom of currents
where the stunned fish neither dream nor drown.
From Cry Wolf, Templar Poetry, 2012