Whether I write

 

Whether I write, words like birds

go meet one who waits for you.
Whether I write, words like birds
catch the train out, or the one
will get you back. Whether words
like birds, make contact with those
who will advance your prospects.
Whether I write, bird words, feed
the dog, take it for a walk.
Whether words like birds, move cows
to the next field, plough the fields
now empty, sow seeds to last
a season, so on, and on.

Whether I write, words like birds
you’ll meet one who waits for you
catch the train, walk the dog, move
cows, sow seeds for the future,
look to prospects, not depend
on whether I write, like birds
who fly in spite of my words.
It is the beauty of it.

 

 
Bird in the country has no
 

idea when her number’s up.
The chances are high of an
early grave, carefully saved
for the crack shot, the pot,
or carelessly mowed by car
on the road, daylight or dark.
That’s apart from natural
predatory foes. Her woes
would get a lesser bird down.
Pop. Bye-bye! Another goes.

 

 
Even this hard rain strafing
 

hillsides of my umbrella
causing rivulets to run,
catch a promontory arm,
perimeter hem, before
dropping into the cup of
a loch, I want you to see
but since a deluge ties me
to this spot, you must come, come
soon, before it is too late.

After rain even this mud
tugging on the soles of boots
retaining me here, I want
to show you, so that you’ll see
it does not keep me from you
deliberately, but come,
come soon before it’s too late.

After mud even this sun
low, northern, staking my eyes
to the landscape at my back
I want you to see clearly –
that my intentions are pure:
not for the weather I stay,
not for the weather you’ll come
but come you must, and in time.

 

 

Though like embracing water

enfolding sand in my arms,
cuddling air, gathering mist
to my breast, drawing the clouds
to me, pressing stars against
my heart, giving sky a hug,
birdsong a squeeze, holding drifts
of midges, clinching music,
caressing thought, stroking smoke,
grasping a rainbow, clasping
the wind and clutching the
aurora borealis,
I lean against your foggy
unobtainability,
am holding the dear space of
your absence close to my heart.

 

 

The dog didn’t bark. Maybe

it’s the end of the world. You
didn’t ring. It is the end
of the world. Not right you said,
flowers of spring in autumn
as if the world was ending.

Even a cow’s fallen horn
is omen now of something
not right in the landscape, a
bone-prick of not-rightness, like
when I call, no one answers

but a boorish darkness, sun
of your existence elsewhere.
A new world, perhaps? Fighting
over water, caught in flood
by something not right beyond

the door that even the dog
prefers to ignore, and I
to forget, only wanting
to connect with you, before
it roars, this mute foreboding.

  One Response to “Whether I write”

  1. Very moving! There is a melody in this writing which reels the reader in.

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