Twisted Blood

Being bright like stars falling
or rain on leaves;

Everywhere the lights leaning
like wilting flowers;

The last quiet cold of winter
quickly fading;

The last of the still-soft
orange evenings;

Angled and reaching like
like long branches;

outstretched, eager.

Turning back, and then again,
as though lost;

Or leaving too much and too soon
and flustered;

Even flustering like rushed
wind in doorways;

Flushed, red faces and stiff
hands jammed

In pockets; unsure, anxious,
before anything

changes, unchanged.

And the un-moored ships,
softly bobbing;

So setting out and away
always the same;

Slowly building inertia
with every gale;

In the broad eyes overlooking
the grey white water;

And the once-ageless, dying
evenings;

so still, so strange.

All your restless birds,
ruffled and fluttering;

Their lillied wings like swerving,
ghostly things;

Like someone singing
or someone lost;

Like some sprawling light in
the window;

Broken, breaking like stars falling
or rocky lees;

outstretched, away.

———

Swan Songs are written by @MaxwellKuhl. Read the previous instalments here.

Tagged: Swansea