Near Lima

There you are, face up on an open plain,

following the reeling flight of carrion-hawks

sweeping in circles, the dark outlines of their wide wings

distinct against a cloudless sky.

I read somewhere most of us, day-to-day,

rarely raise our eyes more than fifteen degrees

above the horizon. Here tonight,

nowhere near Lima, each weary pedestrian       

focuses on straight-ahead except

at street corners, where we turn our heads.

The yellow-lit windows

of the buildings tightly hem

and I admit I only look up now because

I’m thinking of you, I find it dizzying when I do, 

the yawning weight of that cathedral-domed,

bruised-purple sky, wheeling on.

Claire Orchard

Claire Orchard lives in Wellington. Her work has been published in various journals and her first book of poetry will be published by VUP in 2016.