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Post by MoonyLuna on Feb 24, 2009 11:28:32 GMT -5
It's been weird weather. Storms that brew but don't break, winds that strew small branches and leaf litter, sun and rain in equal measure, cold so deadly it's the talk of town, and no one's sure if the drought's broken.
It's been weird weather. Especially this morning. Tim calls me excitedly to the window—look, a meeting of the birds—in the grey, fraying limbs of the dead tree, distorted semaphore, pink and grey galahs, hooked tooth and claw.
Tim, like me, is sceptical of allegory, though he insists, and I agree that the weight of the birds might collapse the tree, their words frenetic, ecstatic, hyped, their perches stressed and cracked.
It's been weird weather. A sudden gust of wind sweeps in and shakes the living dead, splintering feathers, drawing red out of the galahs' pink chests. An apogee of conference.
It's weird weather. Something had to give. Gutturals are rumbling hollow, shreds of the tattered sun strobe through. Tim's dread of what will come—broken hymns— I will never again walk under its limbs.
Copyright John Kinsella
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Post by MoonyLuna on Feb 24, 2009 11:29:26 GMT -5
Featured Poet John Kinsella
John Kinsella's most recent volume of poetry is Shades of the Sublime & Beautiful (Picador, 2008). He is a fellow of Churchill College, Cambridge University.
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