Smoothly thoughts swift from seagull to crow to raptor.
No moment between awaking and sleep seems to be on its own,
one thing leading to another: you leave the house in my good faith
and the phone rings for you, dark clouds appear
while the message cuts the bacon of the day like a butcher’s knife.
Rain starts to fall as the words sink in, bullets hitting the roof.
There is thunder. A door slam.
The return of the hawk on the nest. Still wet from the rain,
eager to know if someone has rang, you are back.
In one movement, one murmuration, the day has gone by and
no. No one has phoned I say. The birds in the nest close their eyes.
From hawk to blackbird to lark thoughts smoothly move backwards,
all fade into dreams, resulting in the good of this morning’s innocence.


Comments on: "The phone is dead, dear. Thunderstorm." (8)

  1. Your use of visual images is stunning, I really enjoyed reading this. The poetry itself has such a fluidity of movement and song to it, beautiful.

  2. moment between awaking and sleep seems to be on its own,

    I understand this. It took retirement from job and abstinence form alcohol to get off the roller coaster.

  3. Different for you I think.

    A kind of stream of consciousness poem

    I like it.

    Much love

  4. As I read I was thinking what belfastdavid wrote, Ina – it is a different form for you and very well done. XO

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: