Friday, 4 March 2016

Brown Bird

A swiftness of being,
with gentle sky-taps,
contrasts to the ploddy earthiness
of the ground below.

The fog had swollen,
you could chew it,
breathe it,
and squish it in your hands.

It made the sky flax-white,
refined as a leather purse,
or gentle oak-stained
glass of wine.

And with all anchors of land,
a solemn being uproots,
up, up,
and up once more.

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