The slow tumble of the clouds sideways
across the blue sky’s bald pate,
lit and then obscured. It had been dark
in me all day, and then I realised:
I had no windows wide open in me
like these.
 
The nine-thirty flexi-time work cut-off,
while high above the miles of cloud
gathered, moved huge weathers.
The scale was constantly changing;
the scurrying of our smallness,
the huge slow masses.
 
Sometimes it seems our lives are lived in words
all scurrying together; vocabularies
like clouds, huge, full
of everything that sustains us.
So why these snarl-ups on the road:
why this darkness in us;
these stops?
 
I have sent words out, scurrying little helpers,
to draw you back from harm, with a busy
tie-ing in of reasons for continuing.
And I have stood there too where words fail
at the roof edge, face to face
with that wordless place
 
as big as the sky, and as hungry.
 
It has nothing to say that words can understand.
And everything to mean.