Blackbird’s Wing
Up the blackbird’s wing
and not on its back
I glide with the frozen
to the out back.
It’s here I sing,
there’s nothing I lack.
Wind-bitten stings.
It’s no sticky track.
Who needs a film,
or a game or a book?
When out in the still
snowscape I’ve a look
at true magic
all along the way
through sparkling air
and the dust of the fey.
More wondrous beauty
than I can record.
Thunderous variety
of color
not words.
How can I recount
the foreign feel
of dappled shards
where sunlight peeled.
Laid out Splat!
flat underneath
a sprucestand so thick
it’s an unlikely wreath.
The spells are cast
at elements’ cost.
Retelling the past
with sound that is lost.
Sunset hails
moonrise shades.
‘Snomes’ guard rails
by windless glades.
You can’t tell me
magic lives only in imagination.
After I return,
from the moon’s burn
and this wintry jubilation.
2020