Not even landscape with its cordial trees…

By | 1 August 2017

How many times, looking towards
whichever bay it is
I’ve been drawn to, casting myself out
across the horizon,

held aloft by this or that
particular bird (today a flycatcher
suspended above the River Derwent
singing out its heart
on a wire);

watching a tree teased out of its trunk
by the acute sun, its shadow
like spun wool
drawn off a spindle that won’t stop
being pulled,
thinking I can stop the inevitable fall
back in my bone.

And falling, of course, the bird
long since

(and all the feathered lengths my head
went to
shot down
at dusk).

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