All Sutherland birds are flightless, the local
tiny holes in fences for the poor
creatures to hop
through, and we are strangers lost
and roaming in a lonely place.
Riders within us direct our dreams,
we who imagine ourselves
untouched by the local weather,
and yet a storm is brewing
by the picture rail in the dining room
where the larks are pecking at the carpet,
and Docinha’s head is hidden inside
a fluffy philosophical cloud.
Our days together, what can such
repetition ever achieve?
She asks again.
A cat pounces beyond the window,
a sky blue feather wafts
three centimeters to the left.
I ask about my diary, which should be blank,
yet every day I notice that
each page is not as blank
as the day before.
Have you by any probability,
my sweetness, been writing in my diary?
So now it’s your diary is it?
I notice you mentioned the sun god
Ra, your voyages on his solar barque
from the sunfall to the dawn.
coda from tomorrow’s news
The council’s optimistic now—avian wings
might flutter a little—and recommends
holes in fences be positioned
some centimeters above the ground.
Ralph Vaughan Williams, The Lark Ascending, 1914