Bodyweather

Breaths of birds, of sky ants
tap dance in rings around the knot,
the island of electrical hill
in my back.

Dotted lines walk the map
of my worried flesh.
Its magnetic arms waving
to an invisble field of sky
appreciated by Reiki's charms
and solitary druids.

High pressure, say the contours.
The red arrows squeeze me
as my back quakes,
a frightened child of cells,
stimulated from some nervous epicentre.

Here, the spell is cast
and the canopy of my spring seeks rest,
a cool mist of precipitation;
the magma of my life moves.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.