gyre of swifts
tangled in dizzy swoops
of black and white,
unstable
as aerial Celtic knots,
zestful as hummingbirds
beguiled by noon.
lust elates
their little chests,
makes them weave
like gears of a magic clock
until many of them
plummet
and the rest stream away,
leaving no signature.
Chris Crittenden, Maine, USA
2 comments:
I'm watching swifts in volume while I'm writing this ... and taking each image from the poem and saying, yes!
Gordon,
I appreciate your generous words. Although I've been rather stoic, your comments have uplifted me in the past, thank you truly.
Chris
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