what the **** is a Nightingale I
know its a bird I
know there Florence Nightingale
and in my abstract mind I
see a bird of the night
sitting upon the chest of my
sick child

she's not plucking her
eyes for food instead
she's giving her Dark
magic from our book

she's nursing Midnight's Children
with kisses as tender
as an obsidian blade
shaving pubescent legs
to a sharp sheen
ready to cut morning's
edge with ebony rage

in scorched ground
severed roots remain
untethered tumbleweed
rides the thermal
on a heady rush to heaven
only to drop shattered
on the desolate highway
a once lush landscape
in full splendid flower
abundance freely given
but for one desire
do not let me die
for lack of water

To climb is to fall.
In time, the ladder bends.
The hand reaches too far and grabs
a fistful of nothing.

We islanders tied to London
but closer in distance to Norway
Have a rich history
Vikings, earls, stone age
And of course us incomers ARE the new Vikings
but I will not be telling the locals
-they being descendants from Viking Norway
and far too wrapt in decrying us Englanders.