they sit there, these papers
face on back, back on face
scribbled and disreputable
awaiting the allotted time
redemptive urge
to lift, change, renew
and realign their message
give them harmony

and up above and miles 
away from their squat niche -
that cosy metal space -
I watch harriers fly
black dots in the air
dissecting trajectories
chasing tails
squat and black and curving there
and wonder when, how, where
I'll hear the song being sung
correctness of note & voice, the
neck hair rising
as they blend to 
truth and fecklessness
an image ever swimming
in the air, those flighty
thoughts and twirling lines
pinned there on the page
black butterflies
collected and come alive

if I but breathe life in them
they will fly
Collected Works
Return to Collections all
next poem