Not even landscape with its cordial trees…

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
gone

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

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