Owl darts, silent,
over cliff’s edge.
Was no gull:
said he, who is in my bones,
carrion my bones,
that he made.
No father !
But Bobby
saw fractals spilling through fissures in the checks,
lost his mind
to the dark leftover
after
the borrowed fireworks,
father, father away!
I draw him close,
whisper it will be alright.
Taught by travellers.
I walk a path
Shared by poets and butchers
And in truth
By those who chose not to
discern.
Twilight falls so soon
on these Anglified hills
of midwinter.
The sun sets
A melancholy trajectory
Back to a Sunday
Where the crows cawed at the abattoir
In murderous stench
That stood the cattle
They say
Today must be a holy day
God or no
For tomorrow your eye is mine.
Fell a recent yesterday
Into the hole
Where ran the primordial soup
And I slow my walk
To peer
At that little fire in the night
That casts no longer light
where her friend and I
were
when we were farther than the stars
our youth made anew
And old, old stuff
Finger-painted spells
in this rare frost.
Kindness .
Its warmth
Weighs light.
It wends
A
way.
Dames, Friday the 13th, July 2012
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