Tuesday, 29 September 2015

The Migration Path of the Starling is Yet to be Known

I find myself on the cusp of winter
In dark clothes, in a foreign town.
Homes are scattered, like seed torn
And I fly –
 They say of a need to ground.

Ground what?
This insatiable creeping heat?
To want to know, to feel, discover?
They throw breath like pity’s piece
And say I fled
-          I know I hover.

For cold lines are marked like framework
Metal, gravel – yet the sky
Occupies no time or distance

-          The heart is warm, this meets your eyes.