A thousand birds—they flew out of
your mouth at your dying,
as you said
they would
& bewildered me:
They bewilder me still.
Nearly 48 months have passed & the beating
of those wings has haunted, filled
this room
where I
sit now writing, the room
where you died:
a clattering
of wings has passed through these walls.
Something has stopped.
Something
is unable to go any farther.
The wings are
still now
& I rock from
side to side
with the faintest
movement barely perceptible because I cannot
breathe in this stillness
& must set that power
moving,
those enormous wings
flying again.
-- Hilda Morley
your mouth at your dying,
as you said
they would
& bewildered me:
They bewilder me still.
Nearly 48 months have passed & the beating
of those wings has haunted, filled
this room
where I
sit now writing, the room
where you died:
a clattering
of wings has passed through these walls.
Something has stopped.
Something
is unable to go any farther.
The wings are
still now
& I rock from
side to side
with the faintest
movement barely perceptible because I cannot
breathe in this stillness
& must set that power
moving,
those enormous wings
flying again.
-- Hilda Morley
