shrieking whooping, so close above my head
I can see their curved beaks,
the prehistoric arc
at the lower edge of their wings.
Sheep stare at me in the path
then turn abruptly
leading lambs
at a trot into the heather,
the muted drumming of their feet
on the hard earth.
Standing on the edge all the time
and teetering,
just pulling myself back
with pictures, with gentler thoughts,
from the plunge.
3 comments:
These recent posts have all been such wonderful writing. I'm so sorry for the obviously painful mental states that they reflect. I think, though, that you may look back and be very happy to have this writing - perhaps the potential heart of a project or collection. I certainly feel privileged to read it.
Thankyou Jean. Your comments mean a lot to me.
Lovely - thank you for taking me there.
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