words & pictures
That rockmelon moon Leant to a smile A girl, leaf brown Fell from a tree From limbs with mouths That age old gnarl Turned yellow eve, russet, sun lost Spiralled down to holes and with The endless shape Of clasped hands In her soughing, see-saw breath From the morning, scattered
Whistle a magpie song Count almost to seven As she bends a wing The ash and char long after fire In that dancing way With a tilted query To ask only this; You have neither tongue Nor beak, to sing a newfound morning Nor yet a rise of quills to make Of the swell of day a flight From merriment to soaring Yet with a caw of half-broke voice You pretend to sing I will turn, and bow and pause and carefully watch and wonder In the narrows of bird-caution Is this a mockery in your voice Or the joy of worship?
