Thursday, 11 April 2019

A Poem by Lynda Turbet

Pinkfoot

Listen, first:

hear our cackling call,
our honking trombones 
rally the laggards
into formation.

Our wings echo wind-filled sails'
rhythm of flapping canvas;
we are a ship's prow
parting the sky.

We land flat-footed;
a thousand beaks
ravage beet-fields
in autumn cleansing.

Our eyes are ice-rimmed stones;
the tang of salt and pine
clings to our feathers.
Here is our south.

Watch our clumsy rise 
wheel to a pink horizon,
smudged shapes sketched
in charcoal dusk.

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