Learning to See

by Oz Hardwick

It’s a map of the tracks where angels fell,
linking Heaven and Hell; the constellations
before they shrank to pinpricks; a portrait
of the Creator’s eye, its cornea reflecting
the instant of inspiration. It’s the moment
when polarity swings, and I see everything
and speak the universe on an analogue loop
from the first probe to land on the Sun. It’s
golden cats leaping to branches, amber eyes
tracking prey between roots: this is my heart,
this is my breath. It’s the first tribal gathering
since before you were born: we bring music,
we bring love, we bring fire, all held against
the black bars that crush the mad, the down
trodden, and those who see themselves as more
than economic units. It’s a sea of flags, waving
further than the eagle’s eye can see, each one
different. It’s the caffeinecrazy conversation
between conjoined twins, speaking languages
of their own, speaking of what only they know.

It’s just a dream of the sleeper beneath the hill:
not Arthur, or even Albion, but the sleeper
who dreamed them both and dreamed us all.