Drinkers

Big spread of white wings
A mourning’s worth of calls
in the space of an hour
caws hyperborea et argenteum
spread out along the rooftops
sharp eyed for flesh or bread

In the east a furnace of molten red
congeals into a sun
turns gold on the wings of sparrows and doves
blinds the nectar sippers, dew drinkers,
lifting the light with a million tiny wing beats

The bay below is unruffled,
huge watery eye on a still face.

PBSweeney 2006

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

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

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com 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