On mornings like this, the jag of restlessness;
the way the light chisels the world and cuts it afresh;
the way leaves’ shadows scribble the walls

with their Rorschach tests; an ache in the bone craving for more,
the riddle of last night’s dream, a hostage to dawn.
It’s true your small room with its table, Greek carpet

and chair satisfies still. In a profligate age you chose to subtract.
It’s the first real home you’ve had and you like its space -
the way two chairs stand upright, local as prayer;

but today you are drawn to the incandescence of light breaking outside.
Through a thin haze of curtain you can see your bike,
the gleaming round of her wheel an invitation to pilgrimage…

and it’s futile to beat down the urge  -  for even now as you stare,
you’re mounting her back and pressing down hard
and letting her take you through broken-down farms to the open road;

and on this island of fire you’re ready to follow her anywhere:
North. South. East. West. What does it matter? A peregrine soul
welded to metal, the kindling wind singeing your hair.12_tidal.html