flies gather
at the dead weight of him
quietly
they touch with tenderness (black feathers)
they shade the Sun's bruises
they make preparation
while the still eyes for all that
are wide open
scanning the space he criss-crossed
and wrote over
black pearls
mirrors to fall in
they fix on nothing
they take it all in
and turn to
the bright dark
the swallowed breath
held before the question
was shaped
and thrown
Corvids, indeed. I've not seen a dead one but they abound hereabouts. About the dead. I see and hear a lot in your poem, though, and have shared it with some friends and family, along with the link to your blogsite. You and R. S. Thomas.
ReplyDeleteR S Thomas; there's a poet.
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