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