Winged Voices

Towering old,
Wild and unforgiving circles,
Pronouncements of the insane,
confounded, shrinking.

"I could have run around and around and around..."
Said the old man, panting,
Dizzy, swaying, deranged.

"Time to get off, time to get off!"
The birds mantra, shaking the bushes
And entering as warning
Along his body hair and through his pores.

What now? Was there some other chapter to life
So very different to all that had come before?
Another language, a different vision,
Behaviours and customs?

His hands lingered uncertain and without sign.
Being was all and enough to be silent
And then enough to see,
The struggling voice from every body,
Every creature, mountain and garden.

That moment, this peace, our heart.