Colin Falck
Feed the Wild Birds
Feed the wild birds. This is winter
When the cold sun glints in the trees,
The insects vanish, berries wizen
And blood runs thin.
The dying
Face in the ambulance
Peers out. One thing
Leads to another; this
Is life. Wife, strife;
It all shakes free.
Earth: birth.
A poem takes flight with its own rhythm
As days close in. The mind
Grows hard, holes up, holds out
In this dark light,
Keeping the lines open for another year.
Page(s) 29
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