Breath and bread

Breath is true, a rhythmic ripple

rocking the ceiling above my bed,

a cyclical sea, linking my lungs

to the ebb and the flow, the ceaseless tread

which marks the moon-wrung, sun-spun world

with high-lines and ox-bows, living and dead.

Dry one day, they shimmer again

like lungs and blood for breath and bread.

True I breathe, as rivers for seas,

living on moments of freshness fed –

never a surplus, yet heavenly peace

cradles the ripples, and soothes my head.