Saturday 11 February 2023

A Poem a Day (553): Starlings

 
I wrote this one for JD Mader's writing group on Unemployed Imagination. Head over there this weekend to read people's scribblings or write your own. 


Starlings

His last words floated,
soared into a sky of curious birds,
murmurations of past lives twisting,
floating in the ether of yesterday,
the truancy of angels.
 
Friends wait in hesitation below,
unsure of raising a glass in respect,
unsure if it’s the right thing to do,
stalling ‘til the son takes the lead.
 
“It’s a fine day for it,” people said,
nodding knowingly, in that polite way,
too English to say how they feel,
keeping it in, stiff upper lip and all.
 
Everyone can feel the hole.
It spreads outwards in violet hush,
memories filling with postcards
of happy days and well-worn anecdotes,
offering a bright light in the cold.
 
Above, the starlings are spinning,
creating pictures in the quiet air,
filling their audience with hope,
honouring he who has passed.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, February 11, 2023


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