A couple of days in and the
wing feathers
are already bedraggled; the
weather
is strangely warm when it
should have been cold
- summer in winter. The year is just days old.
Somewhere the light’s dying.
Somewhere icy winds
have knifed trees. More grace
than can be imagined
even in the unkempt, in the shady
light -
the rims of hope and grace are
seldom watertight.
The anglers are gone, the
fishing boats are back,
sun’s in its rightful place
in the zodiac.
Waiting for the bones to
move a bit less smooth
the flesh to peel away and
reveal the truth –
that feathers, shaggy or
not, knifed trees and all
remain beautiful however the
light falls.
