'The ant's a centaur in his Dragon world...'
Ezra Pound - Pisan Cantos
..........................
Swifts throng today,
blue-skies predation
under peaceful pastel,
cloud graduality,
raking sickle sway,
tongue-gugging clack-beak,
several squadrons synchronizing
the big wing.
Something falls from the sky.
I look for the mute
on sleeve, on jeans,
but it is a strange, winged being
landed on my thigh,
some kind of fairy a child
might think at first sight.
I scoop her and she clings
to the clicker of my pen end.
'Now that's no home for a heavy
abdomen, lacy-winged, gauche miss.
Where's your limo, then?
I feel a jerk for setting her down to walk
in obvious frustration across my table.
I chide myself severely,
offering her my left forefinger,
slowly lifting her high. She flies,
dipping a few inches before climbing
steadily, confidently over the shed and up,
disappearing into probabilities.
..............................
Gong: There. I knew I could do some soft stuff for you. Pass me that tissue, Anima, dear.
YOU ARE READING
Keep The Home Fires Burning
PoetryA poetry Collection. Now Lunk has taken to his bed, swearing not to write one more word about C, and muttering 'bloody garden', it behoves (Love that word, don't you?) me (and Anima) to fill out his shoes, with soil and flower seed. So we will be 'e...
