THE SPIRE

I'm high on a spire
Up in the cold blue

The blocks of smooth stone
Clamped by my thighs
in the sun.

Almost at the top
Where it tapers to zero.

I can't see down
My only hope –
to insinuate upwards
from its needle-point;

a wire of no thickness,
a sliding filament

in the impossible spaces
between the blue.