Friday, 17 May 2013

Never Quite Still

Never quite still

A rivulet, blinding, thin, wrapped to asphalt ground around

Islands of green shoot

The branches tickle the midday air

The dead just stare

my 12 o’clock shadow points the way home

at the crossroads of the permissible and the forbidden,the sacred and the profane

the outpost and the empire

the animal and the machine

chatter, grunt, click, buss, flap

the flocks in the pen and those on the hillside

in the hutch and in the battery don’t know the difference

between the hum, the rubber and the needles

sits a single flower, quivering

red with a blue heart

not unique but the first

a precedent in my day

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