a summer shower
and in my fifty-fourth year
I’m getting thinner
ghosts stalk pagodas
in their hunger crying out
children, please feed us
dying
water on a leaf
and I want to cry out for mum
who no more feels pain
cliff edge, Blackheath
the white cloud’s rising
I’m in it, like it or not
then all disappears
after fire
tree bones stick out black
through the pearly skin of mist
begging for green
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