Where the Wind Runs

Where the Wind Runs

The harbour is dropping off and picking up
and I am up to my senses in views.
Battered bunkers,

the city
a randomly stacked bookshelf
against the sky.

Jagged erosion
the break-wall — home
to feral cats and curlews.

I am only a visitor
running to and from each surface
wading to be let in.  

I’ll stub my toe,
  ruddy the concrete
with each stain of blood.

Heat drops the days anchor.
Salt becomes another emotion.
I move faster now.

Follow my feet up and onto a grass track
the body a wind-break
elevated and still.

A memory startles. The recoil of a starters gun.
It is here the second heartbeat kicks-in.
The refuge of lanes

a body stripped of rations.
My spiked feet
piercing the line.