Headscape

Headscape

The landscapes in your head 
are a type of lie, and far away,
as you approach they recede 
into oblivious future 
or irrelevant past,
your hands and mouth festooned 
with the fallen memories 
of deciduous crowds.

I have my own headscape 
of sand dunes and sea grass,
with a struggling spider
weaving futures of stories 
against thrashing winds, 
and a tide
that wipes everything away
every day.

My head is a tall secret avenue
where leaves blow stiff
on cold uncharted walks
through complex branching spells
under a night long sky,
and out into a headmeadow  
where twisting tendrils build 
cobwebs across my third eye.