Amazing Mural in New Brighton: Artist Unknown
When
the wind changes direction,
do
your friends say that she is fickle?
Wheeling
and soaring, the hawk searches
the
sky's silent patterns for
whirlpools
and eddies in the liquid blue,
following
only the pulse of knowing that rises
in
her breast and eye,
reading
the ochre outcrops, the granite crags,
the
shale shards and basalt buttresses,
the
myriad forms of the thrusting, restless earth
that
catch and shape the wind and sun,
melding
invisible columns of power for the taking.
Fierce,
steady eyes
scrutinise
that patchwork of pIay,
tapping
its effortless buoyancy
when
the powerful sinew tires.
Like
the hawk, you follow
the
knowing,
wed
to heart and bone
by
the seamless lineage of trust and instinct.
That
is the true voice
you
hear
when
you glide and ride
the
pillar of easeful power:
the
true voice
for
the voices of your friends
can
no longer be heard up here.
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