Rhiannon's birds are
busy in the woods, where the
soft glades are softly sun-lit
and drone of bees sumptuous
and birdsong lightens the air -

whilst you are at table
eating the same sour soup -
mother-fed - since you were two
when she took you away
and gifted you skewed eyes

that look askance at 
line and connection, at name, as if
they could poison you, should you let them.  Protection
paramount against the unknown -

I don't blame you for that, but, 
a door ajar
to let in a chink of light
and cool air from the forest

can't hurt one sequestered
far away
and years from here
suffocated by another's care.

So your birds breed
despite you, in the sunlight
and the green, flitting
from branch to branch

soft feathers working, carry
the part of your heart
that you do not know is there -

the part that fits your name,
the stock your bones
draw from, the blood
that fires you - unaware

of antecedent and kind,
of the fineness 
before you,
and a wayward father
young and hurting

saw you part, without power,
skirting round the edges of
his luck, chancing a

coastline that took him
from his home, rejecting
antecedent and kind,

and the fineness
behind him,
content with strangers
till he lost himself in
water and subtle tones of
promise, holding all
the wrong things dear.

I mourn you, the woman I
do not know -
remember the promise of the
moment when we spoke

like a soft breeze soon
sped round the corner
to the new -
it took you with it, all
	those years ago -

here, tonight, the bright
evening fills the sky
and the birds are loud,
trees swaying - your birds
are loud, Rhiannon,
	playing in the trees.
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