You reed-bed wave of gold,
under still blue
tacit, folded
in you sleep
a million hushing
hushing birds.
I run through:
start all your words
into the sky. These waking starlings
shout, or murmur, let them fly.

An audio version of this poem is available here.


About chiller

Rachel Coldbreath spent 20 years working internationally as a technical specialist on large data collections for law firms, before becoming disabled. She blogs on a variety of topics from the news and politics to gardening and how very annoying it is, being disabled. Habits include drilling holes about 1mm away from where they ought to be, and embarking with great enthusiasm on tasks for which she is neither physically nor intellectually equipped.
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2 Responses to Words.

  1. John says:

  2. iamamro says:

    I like this – it’s excellent.

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