Absinthe on Black Hill

by John Stocks

And this is how my consciousness
On moor-land alone, light fading fast,
Absinthe, an absence of you
Stirs like a distant memory
Drawing me back to the edge:
Hums with strange exaltations,
Insights beyond articulation,
A dream autism more strangely real
Than this little box of space and time.

And this is how consciousness
Soars beyond the day’s pedantry:
A huge white owl against the black
Feeding on a tang of cooling air,
Sorcery at the cusp of time,
Absorbing elusive mysteries
That you can only know and feel
And sense and never remember,
A world beyond the bubble of mind.