The stars are in our belly; the Milky Way our umbilicus.
Is it a consolation that the stuff of which we’re made
is star-stuff too?
– That wherever you go you can never fully disappear –
dispersal only: carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen.
Tree, rain, coal, glow-worm, horse, gnat, rock.
Saturday, 30 December 2017
winter poem: What-are-the-birds-doing-with-the-December-sky riff
Winter lounges, sodden and unused –
the sky is a washing-line of sorrows.
At night, the stream talks to itself;
becomes a dance floor for wintersong.
The wind does not care for my
predictions or predicaments;
it suspires, expires, rises again.
Day wakes, laden with blue.
I wonder how much words weigh,
and why the oak log splitting under the axe
shows sinews haphazard as memory;
and how it is that we can hold on
to nothing, even love.
All truths in the end are symbolic.
I am a metaphor for transience,
just as a bird is a metaphor for flight
– how a synchronisation of starlings
is an incarnation of wind,
maybe an act of God.
When the ash tree fell in the woods
its bunched keys hung like a roosting
flock of pipistrelles.
In my sleep, I said: leave
access points under the eaves
for swallows, bats, angelic hosts.
You heard me. Held me close.
© Roselle Angwin, Bardo 2011
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