My grandfather was a bird.
Underneath his white hair
he wore crayon-coloured feathers.
They were of broiling gold
and of burning red
and of drowning blue.
One was green the colour of a single blade of grass.
When he walked ahead of me
I could see from his stride how he flew
in the branches of trees.
When his hand curled in my hair
I could feel him perching around me.
When he worked on the end of a shovel
I found how his arms spread wide in a turn.
And when he stood over a bed full of flowers
I saw that his eyes gathered what shone
on the ground for his nest.
When he was gone I remember him sitting in a tree
in a garden which he had planted.
And all the cries of morning were around him.
From The Art of Walking Upright (Steele Roberts Ltd, 1999)
© 2006 by Glenn Colquhoun.
Posted by kind permission of the poet.
He wants to fill in the pasture’s low spots. I say no, no, no these…
O body, cracked bell that still sings when struck, O leaky cup, O broken stem,…
Oh to find that still surface, the glide of silk and silence, sun lit along…
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