It didn’t turn out as I expected,
the ache of life went its own way.
I wasn’t ready for much beyond
the softness of white wings
I wanted to fall into
their folds deep as cream,
a wiping out of self.
But here you are, red beaked,
gliding grimly beside the muddied edge
carrying broken twigs,
dragging green weed,
pressing towards me
spitting, unasked for,
with hawthorns in your eyes.
I borrow your feathers, brittle as brush,
a widow’s camouflage, marked out.
You beat on against the tide, ruffling water.
I gather haws from the bank,
weave twigs into rafts,
stretch out my neck
for a second chance.
First published in Orbis 199 (March 2022)