Lifting doom’s veil

By | 1 February 2020

Hope is the thing with feathers Emily Dickinson

Crows crumple like rags across a wreath of dry bristles
their raspy commands like phlegm from demented mouths
I think of sulphur and soot, of the sick trees of East Germany
how I stood in the dark silence with the wildness buried beneath.

Feathered arguments eclipse the quiet voices
for those who will not stop for stop you must
doubt is blindness to the wren in the wood
hope is listening to her song.

For blackbirds still rose above skeleton pines
dipped and arched in impulsive play cried in joy
or so I believed for reciprocity has taught me
to dance when there is music, to pause when there are birds

If I clap my hands a flock of love letters baptise the sky
words fall like leaves across my palm
trust receive
attached only to the wind at their breasts, the birds fly on.

The grace of flight is wind welcoming bones and the absence of expectation.

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