Stylite

With a clear sky I can see for miles.
I try to catch the bread and wine

thrown upwards as if the lobbers
feel – once caught – all their prayers are answered.

What is it about folk who decide to be alone
in caves, on mountains, on tall pillars,

cut themselves off from the nine-to-five,
regular grind blistered in sun,

buffeted by gusts, hailstone pelted,
rain sodden, bloodied by ice,

and oiled young bucks in gangs who wang
stones to dislodge me from this precipice,

seethe at my chosen difference,
see a hoity fella puts himself

above others, show off, poseur,
while others try to tempt me

as if I'm in a desert, promise money,
fleshly pleasures if only I come down

off my pedestal? Close my eyes, hear
city hawkers and hustlers, ice-cream

vans musical wind up and down streets,
prayer call of mosques, toll of iron bells.

Stylite

when gust alters direction inhale,
fish from the docks, sewerage farm stink,

grit blown from dusty roads in my teeth,
sea-salt laps this dry tongue, breathe in

garlic evenings, curried afternoons,
fragrant sweet citrus trees, kisses of feminine perfume,

spring blossom amid morning birdsong
at a change of season. All are prayers.