All afternoon the sea was a muddle of birds,
black and spiky,
long-necked, slippery.
Down they went
into the waters for the poor
blunt-headed silver
they live on, for a little while.
God, how did it ever come to you to
invent Time?
I dream at night
of the birds, of the beautiful, dark seas
they push through.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment