Tuesday 29 July 2008

Edited version, sent somewhere.


Dear bird,

I am home now, black bird, the rain
is falling through trees. I am calling your name
again, though I can't remember what it is
we called you. You must never have known; or else
you're out on the wing with the wind in your ears.

I presume you are happier flying. I have heard
your kind since—song birds only by association
—taking hold of their names in their own harsh throats.
Trapped by holly thorns then and your own beating heart,
you were a question in my hands, shock-quiet.

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.

No comments: