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A stab in the dark 16



16

The image of a feline sorcerer
summons all birds at the grim hour
to break the chalice of dreams,
to roll into the palm of his hand.
He wants more rain
on the early grass.

The second death came at dawn,
gulls and crows called
just before rain and wind
left the night to prowl.

Early birches, charged and soaked
at the edge of more rain,
told their own story,
unfurling green flags to a distant war
of mongrels and squatters.

On the banks the poor
are squeezed
far into the burning dessert
where parched scorpions
bleed beneath a dying crescent.

Migratory whispers
around lakes, in trees or high above,
herald thunder with beady eyes.

The shaman’s shoes
had gone ahead with the brooding light
and the passing of dreams,
rolling across wet grass.




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Publicerad 2011-09-21 21:21

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