Threads. They swung like prayer flags, rippled
in the breeze, tickled like a ribald anecdote, hung
like webs spun on grass on that bright March evening.
We’ll lose them, I said.
No matter, you replied.
I wait for the swallows to return now,
hoping for a blue wingtip
drawn across my cheek in the dark.
10 comments:
Written, de profundis, last week. The first swallow appeared yesterday.
The first swallow. The first Crocus. I grieve with you, sweet Lucy. And yet, Joe's words echo in our hearts and lead us into spring ...
Thanks Natascha. I wasn't inclined to shout that this was here, but thought perhaps some of you might stop by. Yes, spring's at the door, and I'm thankful.
Glad I dropped by here today, Lucy. This is lovely, soul-stirring, heart-mending.
Cheers, Martha.
Back again to reread this and some of your earlier collaborations while thinking of Joe....
This is a precious site. (o)
Thanks ML, and for letting me know you've read. I think I might get around to putting this Questions series into a simple book form, for myself and anyone who's interested, mostly because it's difficult to read back over them in the 'back to front' blog format.
Oh yes! That's a splendid idea, Lucy. I would love to read it again in book form.
Amazing - being able to envisage such an unforeseen poetic structure and then, courageously, to execute it. All long ago (yes, two years can seem a long time) and we're concerned with other muttons. But this here's a huge expanse of wet sand, and wet sand carries an imperative. I won't be offended if it's not noticed; in fact it's the sea's job to ensure this doesn't happen.
Hello Robbie, that was a nice surprise. In fact I'm still notified by e-mail if anything pops up here, of course. You'll find this is in the little Blurb book I made of the whole series, at the end, but before the last couple of Joe's that I put in as an appendix, and a bit of context in the foreword.
Writ in wet sand, somewhere between writ in water and writ in wet cement, I guess!
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