Contact James McGonigal
Sharp strokes of rain
on a tree trunk.
Climbing the hill where gentians blow
I have stepped from the wood to the clouds.
Now a redbreast sings a soft treble
from the beech, bloody in leaf.
I had a mother
who buttoned my coat against the wind
and watched me go. Seagulls
ascending across the sun, birds of passage
in their enormous world,
have gone, each one
a handkerchief, that wiped a face
and flew away.
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