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Zoë Skoulding

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Feathers

No-one ever knew. Some wreck, we thought,
a long way out at sea. We never found

another body, or any other trace.
The sea was a blank, blue

mirror of limitless sky, troubled only
by the flecks of fire with which the waves

dazzled each other. A foreigner, we were
sure of it. His mouth didn’t look as if it

could ever have framed our language.
When we turned him over we found

scorch marks on his back as if
he had escaped a burning ship;

what clothes he wore were soaked in wax,
congealed about him, cracked

where he’d been buffeted. Candles, we thought.
Perhaps some frantic signalling at night,

emergency or lost direction. The feathers
we never understood, except

if we imagined a cargo of geese,
suddenly all let loose at the moment

when hope was lost, filling the air
with wings as if a host of angels

had left the ship to find its fate.

 

Zoë Skoulding lives in North Wales where she teaches and edits Skald poetry magazine. Her first collection, Tide Tables, was published in 1998.

Page(s) 54

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