Seven of spades

Seven of spades face-down in the dust,
Sidewalk spinning out in sinking gravel slopes:
Land of trust, land of higher hopes.
You soar like an eagle,
Tiny shadow in the sunlight, or
You blow away like smoke.
Can you be at rest this high up?
It's easy; has to be: mountain, steppe,
Village and town – whatever else you do,
Just don't look
Down.

Do I feel dizzy, or do I feel hungry
Spiralling out of the sun?
Will I land face-down in the dust,
Fallout crashing heavy metal –
Seven spade-shaped thunderheads
Or maybe seven thousand
Await me, roaring, on the ground.

I pick them up and turn them over,
Tuck them in my billfold,
And wait for a wind to pick me up
Back into the chilly September sky.

- Matt Cooper, 9 September 2009