Kingfisher
of darkness. My brush descends on a wire
pale meadows; brown veins of water; clouds blossom
in a duck plume sky. He darts electric
from weed banks. Still: preens saffron feathers in
stars of light in his eye. Caught in a blur
ghost colours floating on vermillion
over still waters; changing with the fingers
of shadows: dusk. I feel my bones against
hard stones. The grit of warm soil beneath my
palms. Awake I take this moment, take up
the last bright flax of twigs sighing, then hold
tight a dream of it; down the darkened road
5 Comments:
Oh my stars what a lovely poem. Such detail.
Thank-you CJ and so nice to hear from you.
Lovely Poem.
The intimacy of the experience is directly connected to the readers senses. We are with you on this all the way! This is a fabulous experience sometimes refered to as a poem. Thanks Sue.
Thanks Roger
and Russel I wrote this last summer after seeing a whole kingfisher family, Mark had seen them many times but it was my first and truly special
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