A New Metre: Poetry Archive

“Oh that my words . . . were graven with an iron pen and lead in the rock for ever!” —Job 19:24

Parrot-Calls

Among the treetops,
scraps of red dart through the green.
I call your name,
and memory mocks me, psittacine.

Chirps and whistles
fill my ears, and tangle thoughts
in webs of flight,
so sounds of names are vainly sought.

Back to index

Part of Sehr Gut Web • © Sehrgut.