Photo by Jana Niggeloh on Unsplash

Mother struck out with the dustpan.
I ducked its metal edge, and fell.
She kicked out with her small, lame foot.
I scrambled up and ran.

By the pond I sit by the hawthorn bush.
How long?
Movement crosses my sight turned
inward, brings me to seeing out.
Black bird struts some paces away.
I think crow, do not wipe the blur from
my eyes to see, for I must be still
as breathing will allow.
The bird seems not to notice me
as it steps first take it away
then brings it closer.
But it stays, and I am lost
in its presence.
How long?

It spreads its wings as it rises,
and I with all the valley,
walnut tree at the top end,
the pond, the five bar gates
with the stiles beside them
and the sheep beyond
are in this rising.
And forgotten are a mother’s curses,
which will not reach
into the gladness of
this welling flight.

June 2008