Community

It is late autumn after all.
the land half dead:
light enough to dig by,
not to find nails in a shed.
So the skies are filled,
brimming with clouds scudding along
beneath a grey gauze background.
Gates and the like
thrash the pitiable trees
steal their last red and yellow coins,
dash them to the ground.
Suddenly a lone bird
beats across the sky;
buffeted sideways,
it recovers, continues.
Hard to know its purpose:
whether searching out food,
or leaving or returning,
is impossible to guess.

For no clear reason,
next day, two trees are full of these birds.
Their pin pricks of noise
swarm in a white racket
with no pattern to our ears.
They gather in order to leave.
On the edges the anxious twitch and jerk
start up into the air,
see their mistake,
flap back down,
wait for the one true message.
They all know when it comes,
all surge up,
circle and wheel
like a stream of black rags
bisecting the air
until, again, instinct or signal
impels them hurtling out of sight.
We should expect no less.


Peter Keeble