A revisioning and clarification.

The Gifts

Here, for you, a long slow sky at first; a flight
for you into spectacle. Feel it open you up
like a thirst. Bring this morning to your snow-dead
untouched toes, to each body part slowly, on its own.

Take next the sliding acceptance of horseback,
the horse's own gait into your spine. It is my
gift to you. Use it to fend off the unwanted taste
of long-dead clouds, the rough lips of another.

You've shut your eyes by now, I can tell.
Feel the grave-walker bring you back
to life with a finger-tickle up your spine.
I'll count the hairs I've raised there one by one

whilst you escape the panic of a striptease
of feelings down to bone. Stay with me, I still
have a few things to offer. Ignore the voices
out of reach through the white noise; don't fish it

for the one you think you know. Let the sherbert
betray its own pastel colour and shiver your head out
of alone. There, you can speak now. I'm so pleased
to see you. There's still a lingering smell

of pine-damp picnics here for when you're ready:
I think you are. Eat of it until you're full;
don't stop until your glowing cheeks
match the colour of a shepherd's delight.