supposition

the air is surely thick

with the ghosts of birds

the air is surely coloured by arc and swoop

clouded by song and call

the earth is surely syruped

with birdblood

the earth is surely torn by talon and beak

and made ragged with soft feathers

the air is surely heated by their falling

and carcasses must nest

in the cool earth.

     and with every breath

most surely,  the ghosts

of birds

gull

into a stiff wind
your impossible still smoothness
and those blades

those blades

with all their small twists, all their
twistings

flying with jack

"HEY! how did you get here?"

my son asked, when

he noticed me behind him.

"i flew"

i replied.

his five year old

not-quite guile-less eyes

widened.

"can you really fly, dad?"

(me, airily)  "oh yes.  but i only do it

when no one is looking.

people often get upset

when they realise you can fly."

"can I fly too, dad?"

"of course.  it's easy

when you know the trick.

but don't let on.

people

might not understand."

a dawning in those

deep brown eyes

the colour of

good strong coffee

in a glass

held to the light

happily

he ran off

to tell his sisters

"i flew"

the combined weight of their

separate scorn

was not enough to

drag him

back to earth

.

september song

go to sleep.
draw the paintshades
down across your rivet eyes

go to sleep.
fold your bullseye head
under your switchblade wing

go to sleep.
let sweet lips of infant pity
kiss your kerosene tears away

go to sleep.

dream of flying.




dream of flying.