Breath is true, a rhythmic ripple
rocking the ceiling above my bed,
a cyclical sea, linking my lungs
to the ebb and the flow, the ceaseless tread
which marks the moon-wrung, sun-spun world
with high-lines and ox-bows, living and dead.
Dry one day, they shimmer again
like lungs and blood for breath and bread.
True I breathe, as rivers for seas,
living on moments of freshness fed –
never a surplus, yet heavenly peace
cradles the ripples, and soothes my head.
Joe Spring writes 