The Surge

The surge below my body
I could still feel the engine
vibrate my bones when I lay
in my bed.  Back sore, wrists
and hand aches.  A slash on
my left from my garden knife -
the skin parted like a cut
tomato.  Tarmac was hot
and grit, pebbles, scree on the
roads from torrential rain
floods.  Small increase of twist
and the Axe leapt up the
straight road, easy.  Today
all the trees are still, sun
scorches my back, birds
flit from green to green, there is
a bee hive in our shed.
The surge of spirits manifests
in sun like a flower, these
calm balmy days where the
sun reminds us of its power,
takes away our water.  I
think many things and the slow
bleed of the heart never
staunches.  Wounds of spirit
are like deep wells:  silent,
black, bore-hole centred
goes to the core but light
glances off the surface as if
it lived there as if
nothing could snuff out its
diamond flare.

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