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


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.

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