At a day miles an hour
at a wood-wink
hills breathed themselves in
the field shut its ears

weak as you were
hospital-gowned like an owl
I bet you stood up
night’s wings hitting the window

no record yet
of how darkness flares
when you lifted off the tree of your life
I was looking the wrong way

Terry Jones’s first collection, “Furious Resonance”, is published by Poetry Salzburg