Monday 7 July 2008

Another letter, this time from an exercise of sorts.



Dear bird,

I am home now, black bird, the rain
is falling through trees. I have called your name
over again, though I can't remember what
we called you then. You must not have known,
out there on the wing, and now you are most likely dead.

I have heard your kind since, with the wind
in your ears, taking hold of your voice.
I have heard you are happier flying. Trapped
by holly thorns then and your own beating heart
you were our rescue and startling for it.

Were you trapped, though, bird?
Would you know if you were?

You were wild and fierce out of the box.
You were meaning for long summer days.



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