Spinning On My Windmill



my feet grip wind

pushing silver

blading through the air

and spiralling a curtain of liquid thought

a slick coating


perpetual motion

and now I am hanging

upside down

and the colour is dripping

my fingers touch earth

and so

I fertilise my story

and sigh deep into the depths of dark wheat

contained in this body

of  abrasive action


spinning light


14 thoughts on “Spinning On My Windmill”

    1. i’ll look up Sancho Panza
      I think the dervish is experiencing something that transcends the flailing confusion in my poem! BUT having said that the thing I’m striving to understand and possibly convey might be what the dervish experiences…


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