The clairvoyant never explains his gift,
how he comes to see what he sees,
how flashes of vision, insight, intuition
coalesce into a divining rod to point
in one direction or another,
how far they take him from himself.
His art is not science, not forensic,
not often reliable. When he closes
his eyes he sees cloud-mist,
he sees a veil he must lift or pierce,
and beyond the veil a clue, a locket,
a tuft of hair, a red sweater, a map,
a missing child’s body, hidden or visible
amongst a jumble of discarded items,
a woman’s heartache, a man’s bewilderment.
David Adès (South Australia)
An independent poetry journal. Watch your step.
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