Month: November 2011

Little bird

Rescued from a cat, I cradle you helplessly
in the palm of my hand.
You are frail like crushed paper,
contain the mysteries of sky enfolded in
feathers, beak, and soft, lidded-eye.

You breath sounds like rust forming on clouds,
and you shudder under your scruffy
coat and I think you won’t make it. But
later, you are a twitching reflex of
remembered purpose.  You make known
your indignation at being
captive and –
with some trepidation–
I release you into the garden whereupon
you vibrate your thanks, lightly
against my palm, and it feels like you’re dancing
then in a flash you are gone.

You’ve morphed into the night,
the noise from your wings the only
sign you were here.

© 2011. Sarah Horne. All Rights Reserved.

On memory (for Marian)

In the low hum of night
silences overlapping
I listen carefully for husks of memory
see if I can fit them together
like a puzzle

Autumn is here and
I am as a hollowed, marionette
I spin myself a fat cocoon
from the photographs
on my table
Fashion a home for me to live another night

(Perhaps all we truly have is silence,
and the small things that light
our attention
like fireflies)

Autumn is here and
I wish I could say to you that it’s all OK
but the truth is everything fades, becomes sepia

Oh, this old woman sitting here isn’t me
she’s not the girl who went travelling on her own
–long before it was fashionable!–
spoke six languages, fell in love.
I place the photograph back on the table
I’ve sewn you into my mind for another night

Tonight, I can still utter your name.
And I say it over and over again.
Over, and over.

© 2011. Sarah Horne. All Rights Reserved.