Was it you?

Really you I saw

that day,

that night,

while I stood with the wind

in the rail lines’ slope

of scree and

scrubby weeds?

So many miles folded

between us,

yet so clearly

I saw you through

the window’s smooth panes

of glass two stories up

in that time-peeled,

wood-frame farmhouse…

You bent

to lift the kettle,

your back curved

like a scythe,

like the sickle moon,

and I said

(my promise traversed

the separating space

though I never raised

my voice)

I said that I would help

at a word,

a gesture –

drop the kettle;

thump the floorboards

with the broom’s handle,

with your heel…

I would help.

The words left my lips,

and I wondered how,

in this mortal world,

a ghost might manipulate

matter to be heard?

Our lines diverged.

Slow-strobing signal’s

flash.

Cinders’ sigh of

warning…

 

We were

to meet

for tea…

 

— C.Birde, 3/20

 

 

Follow

the path,

through wood &

moonlit dark,

along

smooth-set stones

well worn

with age.

Climb

the steps –

long & shallow,

silver-limned –

to the well,

squarely centered

amidst the pour

of flat stones

beneath

the arbor with

its twist of aged,

dark-rust

vines.

But –

there —

curled around

the well

& draped

down the steps

in undulating

folds –

the snake

prevents

approach.

Mammoth

in proportions –

a hundred feet

in length;

three feet

in diameter –

it lies

like shadow;

near static,

but for

the stirring

of those caught

within it.

Three shapes

clearly identified –

FoX,

PumA,

Hound doG —

each living

& struggling

against confinement.

      “Cut them free!

      They’re still

      alive!” –

frantic exhortation

flung against

the night’s

deaf ears.

The dog —

most recently

consumed —

wags its long

brush of tail,

parts its jaws

&

audibly,

barks.

Yes.

Oh, please.

While they

yet live,

cut them

      f r e e.

 

 

– C.Birde, 2/20