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; like everything,
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, 2009 in Bardo, Shearsman 2011