Always We Begin Again

I'd slept after I woke
amongst the rocks, but always
I begin again; I picked across to
where I bade me look, into the well
and in I fell.

I dragged myself round
amongst the Gedarene tombs.
There she was; she'd tried wrapping
herself in cheap veils made from
Beijing smog.

I enfold the madwoman's hand.
While we're gone may He make her
a dress and make us a cairn,
a mark to note the summit of the
beautiful mountain.

Pic: Christine Valters Paintner's handmade Canadian coast cairn
from the 37th Poetry Party