Ian Anderson

Circular Breathing

Ian Anderson


Pick up my wings and fly 
into a Constable sky. 
Look down on the world and try 
to make you out on the distant ground. 
Lonely toy in a lost toy-town. 
Suspended in spiral sounds - 
Sounds of circular breathing. 

I'm a kite on a silver thread. 
Daring lightning to strike me dead. 
Harsh echoes of things you said 
banished me to a thinner space 
with unholy ghosts of your bedroom face. 
Hands cupped to my ears to place 
the sound of circular breathing. 

Matchbox cityscape below - 
I watch Lowry matchstick figures go. 
Caught in the timeless flow of discreet silence.