(partly for Al Hammond’s garden circa 2002, partly for David Attenborough’s narrations, red in tooth and claw.)
Weep. whoop a tough throb
stumble stone-limbed to the barn.
call for churches in vain
white walls, green leaves
and like angels the bursting in
of mechanical notes.
old fingers into young balm.
crush which sits in the palm.
of self. i heard echoes that were not my own!
in an aeroplane over the sea
breathing like an engine. of self.
star-particles of certainty.
the drifting grasses take off their shoes.
in the darkness
one black eyelash sticks to your damp cheek
somewhere over europe, and heading terribly away
sleep, and i will weep like a bird for the scope of the sky
weighed down by two super-long tail feathers, tipped with cumbersome discs.