Another filmmaker generous enough to feature one of my songs
As five swans, together, lift their weight,
With no little effort, toward the sky,
My eye, yet falls, admiring, nearer ground,
Where, on a branch that overhangs the lake,
Not starting at the egret’s cry,
She, unlocking not a sound,
Who hunting over-long would drown,
Reaches out her drenched wings to dry.
A grebe, unseen, submerged, passes near-by,
And on the shore mill pheasants, sheep and rabbits,
But clothed in nature’s charcoal-aged habit,
She busies not herself, but sits to dry.
And so a long in-breath becomes a sigh,
Cutting through all wandering, worried thoughts,
Just to watch her perch upon the over-hanging stalk,
And reach out her drenched wings, to dry.
Image: Cormorant by Sonja Molina, Instagram @sonlune
The hills roll like eggs
with calcium texture
latticed in spiky monoculture
on cabbage-moth time
and territories, more
than we know.
Two stroke chopper drone,
bird-strike and rhythm and blues,
and flat, crawling conifers,
ever-green and bloomless.
Library thoughts –
chattering reflections –
like brown sugar in porridge
following a bee
veined and expecting, themselves.
She sent up flares
near the end
that burst like dandelion clocks
but I saw her
It’s all moving today
as fast as the long pine shadow
it’s all blinding
like a welder’s arc.
Ticking like a hi-hat
and chewing on arithmetic
a school kid
who doesn’t understand
in leaf litter tissue
over the coriander knell
sack cloth races
a ponder away
of garment stained treasure
and chocolate cake
fresh for a favourite
There’s something so real
and present and
the thing that counteracts
a life of imaginings,
In the jagged sharpness of
crumpled and torn
an old shell rusted to
delicacy and overgrown,
refreshed by every rain,
a shelter of history,
a world for countless lives,
eating under tyres and swimming
in oil stained puddles,
ripening in rainbow decay.