Supply helicopters shrink on the horizon.
A canvas tent,
nestled on a rock formation
strangely like a human hand,
is home until Autumn.
The stony shallows of Lake Bliss,
are aeons from plumes of diesel fumes.
What are the comets of colour,
dancing like avian choreographers
in cobalt blue?
When did they arrive?
They’re communing with me,
like eyes of intelligent creatures.
But all my pupils digest
is swirling light,
compacted into divebombing tadpoles.
Comets and tadpoles of vibrant colour,
bend into leering question marks.
How does an unfathomable light show sneer and leer,
as surely as flitting wrens
grace me with their presence and disappear?
Thoughts terrifying and divine meld with mine.
I see them within, I see them without,
until they’re as disorienting
as the waves of river dolphin and birdsong
by an inexplicable water spout.
It dawns on me,
I’m witnessing aspects of a single aura.
Have I observed the connectedness,
or is it a fallacy implanted by the lights?
with nothing more than mild anxiety,
slowly melting beneath the caress
of beautiful isolation.
I wander in radiant shallows,
sometimes swimming over ancient valleys.
Cities from forgotten eras
dominate the distant floor.
Walls, paths, steps, as intact as London.
Timbers long since morphed into silt,
fail to bury the grandeur.
Scuba diving apparitions,
venture close enough
to decipher hieroglyphics on marble reliefs.
For fleeting moments I share their gaze.
sunlight plays with wavelets
from my feet to the horizon.
The freshwater weeds
are as edible as herb gardens
a continent away.
After a dizzy spell,
I wake inside a gleaming white sphere,
as soft as silicon gel.
Sound beyond the bubble
drips with intrigue.
That’s all I can glean from what’s probably
a form of music, or a spoken language,
but possibly neither.
Perhaps it’s the sound of machinery.
I can’t imagine this place is of human origin.
Have I left the planet as physically
as some presume my mind did long ago,
or are visitors,
with technology beyond the reach
of primitive human imaginings,
Murmurs reminiscent of discussion,
accompany pauses between barrages of stimuli.
How many intermingled arguments
dredged from distant memories
can I withstand?
The clockwork rapidity
with which these disturbances come and go,
informs me they’re not my doing.
My pain receptors are stimulated,
until I wonder if my vocal cords will snap,
from the stress of screaming.
Perhaps the battery of tests takes weeks,
but it feels like years.
The dizziness that accompanied my capture
signals my release.
I pat foreshore grass,
like it’s a fragile puppy.
Yams, berries and stone fruits proliferate,
on a farm overrun with an emerging forest.
I’ve heard there’s phone reception,
on the rim of the crater,
but the nearest electronic device
is weeks of climbing, clambering and sliding from here.
Smartphones arrived at the monastery in 2015.