by Aidan Andrew Dun
Dedicated to the legendary Kieran Francis Clarke, loved by many, missed by all; and to his widow, Amabel…
Sensations of other skies come now.
The deep past emerges from vivid clouds.
Out of the smoke of that winter you arrive,
Clearman, parallel traveller, god of language,
Enigmatic, inscrutable, detached, quixotic
presence in the autodidactic morning,
Now, as we first collide synchronistically,
as you come out of the snowstorm, I notice
That racehorsing eagerness as we run together
for the badlands of the Cross and the squat yards.
In the desert, vast striding of two machines of God,
we’re crossing the wasteland where everything is tested!
Look! Our nostrils widen! Your pebble blinkers
catch the polar blue of sunfilled heavens. Friendship!
The oxygen explodes in our airways on fire.
It’s neck-and-neck racing on the fast track to Albion.