The End

At the end
Thave to move my sight up or down.
The path stops here.
Up is heaven, down is ocean
or, more simply, sky and sea rivalling
in welcome, crying Fly (or Drown) in me.
Ihave always found it hard to resist an invitation
especially when I have come to a dead end
a
dead
end.

The trees that grow along cliff-faces,
having suffered much from weather, put out thorns
taste of salt
1gnore leaf-perm and polish:
hags under matted white hair
parcels of salt with the string tangled;
underneath
thumping the earth with their rebellious root-foot
trying to knock up
peace
out of her deep sleep.

I suppose, here, at the end, if I put out a path upon the air
I could walk on it, continue my life
a plastic carpet, tight-rope style
but I've nothing beyond the end to hitch it to,
I can't see into the mist around the ocean
I shall have to change to a bird or a fish.

I can't camp here at the end.
I wouldn't survive
unless returning to a mythical time
I became a tree
toothless with my eyes full of salt spray;
rooted, protesting on the edge of this cliff
- Let me stay!