Monday, 22 February 2010


The morning after the great storm
the old man creaked along the unkempt beach
keeping his dim eyes skinned
for that chest of gold,
the log to keep him warm.

The kestrel he neither saw nor envied
how like a spark she flew out from the fiery cliff,
her shadow skimming the littered water’s edge,
her bright eyes missing nothing.

No comments:

Post a Comment