Water sheds from each leaf Something white and feathery, in that susurration As if the poplar, in bird guise Was wont to fly away, but shamed By the brute, demarcating quill To hold and shiver, await A falling axe I think it was a goose, I don’t know why They once thought a sign suitable for cowardice A piercing bird, high and far-journeying With that strange lifelong bonded love That we wish we had In the misshape of our victories Somehow, more important than a war A feather fallen to the grass Jewelled with droplets In the placid, stillness in between The morning’s chasing rain An unwanted grace Gone in the next upswirling breeze
