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 was 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.