[John Riley]

Clifftop

Hanging from the clifftop,
pink fingers grasping
crumbling dry rocks,
I have no pity for myself.
I am not the only frail thing.
Soon it will be night.
Below, the systematic waves
sound like warriors
crossing the horizon.
If I fall the sky will recede.
Stars will fly from my eyes
and speed to where
planets worship the spin
of their own existence.
To die here will not
make me a saint
like the giant brass one
standing on the clifftop,
turned away from the sea
to stare over the broad land.