Against a drear, dusky grey,
murmurations gathering.
A loose rag of starlings
flickering wings to join Leviathan,
and I stand on chair to set my sights
over the shed roofs to horizon trees,
where I can see the wheel of dragon tail,
and the squads, wave-packets of the air,
augmenting organs of the great beast
who leans towards them welcoming in.
Among all the convolutions, the
tail-tunnel pulled to a long scarf,
deeped to a veil, the flock seems whirled
about a station of the air as if an invisible
agency held it - a swarm on a string.
And now I see the loyalists, yes the very nose
of the calligraphic wyrm, twisting back again,
as if these rooftops were a boundary.
Indeed they are! Another flock's nearby;
and, yes, they try to leech some birds away,
send squadrons feigning joy to join who veer
over the forbidden tiles with multitudes;
and then the foolish-strayed so sheepishy return;
but always the prodigals are welcomed back.
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PoetryIvy-jacketed, December oaks on road-borders shock their stark gestures at us now, through sun and sleet, that January will yawn at and February, propping eyelids, will desperately ignore, longing for blossom; and making do with the least of anything...
