It should be started from something small
And tiny. From a black
Spot on a ladybird’s wing.
Through swaying grass
And a wild rose flower.
Through a claw unfolding and folding,
A paw protruding from a bush.
A cloud covering
The Sun, elusive wisp
Of mist, right to the wind that
Scowls and tears itself from within.
It should be started from the bottom
Along the lanes where pebbles
Crumble below one’s feet.
Narrow paths should be trodden, ever narrowing,
Impassable. One should cut the way
Like a ray through a cloud, or
A beast through the wood.
Right to the top, to the point
Where life is condensed and
Sharp, death being rarefied
And light. Wherefrom all things
Look so tiny and small.
Then comes the time to go
Down, into a shape
Along the lane, where the words
Crumble.