They natter as I slide by, a flock
bickering in the crepuscular light.
There are no gifts that come with this dawn.
No hive mind for these feather-heads,
grey with edges dipped
in the hot blood of baptism, just
a subtle gift of words, a susurrus
rising in strange, muttered currents
to fling blame back and forth
for the eviscerated mounds of crushed
rowan berries. Torn fruit-flesh lines the streets,
the sidewalks, the barrows of grimy snow:
a compote to spice the repast
of January’s shivering child.
Rachel Westfall
January 8, 2013
4 comments:
I am happy to have a new poem from you, happy to see you haven't stopped completely.
Beneath The Surface
There is a darkening
behind your eyes that seeps out
the small tears I find
in your vellum sheets.
I realize you use them
over and over
erasing old work
or painting over off white.
This page is quite thick
and makes me wonder
what I could find three layers
down under your skin.
Beautiful, Christopher! Of course I haven't stopped completely. I've just been devoured by the Malazan Book of the Fallen. And before that, Thomas Covenant. Nearly done now. ;)
A brief lull from hibernating is happening.
I'm visiting, but I'm so Bear-brained, I don't know what to say. Those birds sound like Waxwings. A flock can strip a tree bare in about 15 minutes, tops.
Blessings and Bear hugs!
Bear, you got it! That is exactly who it was. Cheeky berry murderers.
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