for Gypsy and Alan
They wait in the wings of their wings,
living scraps of dusk the dusk assembles,
all hiss and twitch in hedgerow and tree.
The valley tensed and expectant,
shadows settling like spectators.
Light fades to just that tone and then
no help for it, the steady files ascend,
starlings each one translated into
one million-winged dreaming.
Until trees breathe the birds back in
your eyes soak up that shoaling glory.
And then those tired eyes come home,
as children do, reluctant, at night,
cold and dark on their skin, like light.
Mark Roper’s poem is from his new collection. Previous collections include Bindweed and A Gather of Shadows (both Dedalus)
They wait in the wings of their wings,
living scraps of dusk the dusk assembles,
all hiss and twitch in hedgerow and tree.
The valley tensed and expectant,
shadows settling like spectators.
Light fades to just that tone and then
no help for it, the steady files ascend,
starlings each one translated into
one million-winged dreaming.
Until trees breathe the birds back in
your eyes soak up that shoaling glory.
And then those tired eyes come home,
as children do, reluctant, at night,
cold and dark on their skin, like light.
Mark Roper’s poem is from his new collection. Previous collections include Bindweed and A Gather of Shadows (both Dedalus)
