Wing-beats

The evening grows wing-beats like a crow.

The black it beats hangs on the farmhouse roof.

Birds fly to the wood, his last night in their throats.

The day drifts like a played-out fiddle tune.

He waits hard breaths for time to disappear him.

The mysteries of their moments flutter round the bed.

She remakes from head to toe the liveliness

Of the loved man her life curled up next to.

The small hours weigh his breath down like a stone.

His breath lightens as death drips on his face.

On the window mute flowers give cover to the room.

Cows outside with bent necks chew biscuits of hay.

The dawn creaks on the landing and the stairs.
He often said his cows smiled while chewing cud.

The forever where he sinks to is blind to the blue.
As the morning breeze sings itself to sleep,
He gives the wonder of his first breath back to her.

The soul’s collapse goes on until the emptiness

Becomes infinite at a point in its curved core.

Memories tuck away like bales in a barn.

The sun lemon-lights the fragrance of the flowers,

And time goes on with metal star indifference.