Not a postcard, or a tease of lace. In my absence I send a strange messenger, my love but true – I send a spoon. Its haft slips into your hand gladly, like mine, returns the faint warmth of fingers and thumb helpful as a wife. The curve of its bowl against your lips – …
Tuesday poem – “What flight meant”, by Christopher Meredith
I held the art of dying in my hand today. Her hurt wings folded in my loose fist yielding as the fingers of a glove – a swallow that dipped quick trawling insects in the lane clouted by some windscreen out of air and thud, distilled into precision. What flight meant was the pulsing line …
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A Dark Feathered Art 