The chards rising. Am I the praying bird? In the gleaming sun my bones are negative, My flesh a cypher walking through the plains As ghost I move, my dark lord, above me Flocks swirl and spike. I stand accused, Your pointed face divining oblivion, And no redemption in the rains of my Cliff walk days.
2
I see my shroud pinning on the wires His legs are razored forks spinning my Compass from True North. Your dark brush- Fire wings, the swept wind, wheels and strings My fate. Such black rhetoric in a burn, Your caws, loosed perches, on the stakes, picks My crowning grave. Black dove, your feathers finger As they slice.
3
Smoke, the cardinal blood caries my teething Bone, spades my hand without a flight. Taut, the pulled noose my hooded one I see my scarecrow’s reflexion, the scar, Let blood, the seeded droppings end trailed To my door. Feathers, ferry to carry on Dowsing downward, black knight of down, to sticks On extended wings.