The smallest thing; flap of a finch’s wing
Dart of a blackbird’s eye
Rising of spring from buried roots with a cry
Strange to be here again
Late, behind schedule, delayed, out of time,
Yet back at the beginning, where we met
Busy but immobile
The beat of your long-absent feathers
Only memory’s furrows to plough again and again
To sow once more in wonder down
In the winterground
The lightest touch; dewbead dropping
Gossamerglint in that old dawn
Circles in the sky tilting round
Arranged to be here again,
Boxes to tick, lists of lists to fit in,
Install, edit, reboot, compile, deploy, finish, begin
Work and its workings flow
Keeping order, version five dot oh dot oh dot oh
Hollow-chested eye-driven seeker and kin
Chasing the homeroad- getting steeper and dim:
All them words to keep you company
And not a shred of sense between them
The littlest play of light; flicker in a pool
Dances in the ripples,
Lilting out in eager chasing waves
Is it a purpose worth promising
That keeps us from falling off
this slanting Earth?
Creative Writing class assignment: Week 7. A short poem about the rising of spring from the dead-looking winterground, flecks of green and bloodswipe peeking and poking from the earth. I wrote this just before the class and have tinkered with it since. I wanted to get whisks of some numb office life amid the flow of season, and the little little changes by tiny measures. Donal Kelly March 20142014
