I took my repose in pillows and white linen
of thought in the balmy first days of spring
the soft warm threads wrapping around me
a cocoon of fragrant ether and antiseptic skin
the swirling chitter of a flock of tiny birds
verges in the lemon tree just over the fence
and lifts me from my easy catatonia
in unison with their breaking beaks
nipping and worrying, waking my naked skin
a dozen at a time tugging at it
as if struggling to extract an incredulous worm
or dress a shy damsel for her celluloid fate
I emerge where the world meets
my skin it burns off and freezes off
where is the dream that was lulling me
where is my facile death
the tremolo of wind-bowed branches
pedals beneath the twitters and chirps
to lead the ear from the sirens in the streets
like opium from a distant, Yeatsian world
the tufted, lofting greens and blues
distract the eye from the harsh field of sun
it slinks away from
like a chagrined cat whose prey has flown
pretty feathers piled onto bleached pages
cannot fly fingering the un-fetched moon
a dark cloud trails across the light
and for a moment I look up
fingers fanning over shuttered eyes
shadows of flight
Kevin Cornwall © All rights reserved.