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fiona-guestPoems
I heard the shot behind the hill, Pausing to log the dull report, Thinking that death - or deaths – unseen Were manifested out of sight, Not mind. Swift shocks of rising birds Spoke of events my mind inferred.   A feathered body writ in flight Spirals into closer view. Fluttering quills, the uttering beak, The watchful eye, the scribing claw. But all of it has come to ground – On the verge, a body, found In dull and heavy silence. This Is not the body I heard shot But an old **** The blood Dried up, the eyes tight shut, Half-open beak eternally Clamp-locked in silent cry.
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Jan 6, 2011
Jan 6, 2011 at 5:08 AM UTC
The Gunshot
I heard the shot behind the hill, Pausing to log the dull report, Thinking that death - or deaths – unseen Were manifested out of sight, Not mind. Swift shocks of rising birds Spoke of events my mind inferred.   A feathered body writ in flight Spirals into closer view. Fluttering quills, the uttering beak, The watchful eye, the scribing claw. But all of it has come to ground – On the verge, a body, found In dull and heavy silence. This Is not the body I heard shot But an old **** The blood Dried up, the eyes tight shut, Half-open beak eternally Clamp-locked in silent cry.
fiona-guest
Written by
fiona-guest
English
Jan 6, 2011
Jan 6, 2011 at 5:08 AM UTC
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