Tailback
We must
have hit the warning signs
A steep
while back on the tailback.
This energetic
slash of cold cobalt blue
Cuts thin
without smothering us at all.
Chinks of
glass sprinkle out like salt.
We watched
nesting birds below,
Tight in
their night shift, secreted.
They fed.
And sated, were feathered in
While we
stood above, waiting it out.
A
breathless sight on that last night.
This aghast
blue, red rusting in its eyes.
I heard
they sound the entry to the soul.
We rested
briefly, exchanged our watch,
Skies
black with bats launching a hunt,
The bridge
imploding in this anarchic blue.
Copyright
Vickie Johnstone, July 17, 2020
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