Poetry

I Think I Could Be Happy There

I think I could be happy there, white-lunged

Stranded islander west

Of the M6, calling birdsong from my memory, apprentice nestbuilder

Bending

Sky under sky like wattle

Or swallow-flight controller

Sewing atoms a-pulse with

Sunlight

To live in soil damp with lakewater

Buoyant with song

The unknowable mechanics of the rim of trees

Breathing susurrus, the violent ecology

Of the mountain

Thom Flint

© 2014