MD Kerr


A rondine

I know not what my secret is. I try
to pin the vision clearly, try unpeel
the logic from my metaphor, the eel
that slides through greenish-golden gloom so high
above the trees which plunge towards the sky –
the ripples whip it all away and steal
I know not what. My secret is

between the geometric glimpse and cry
of sweeping kites beneath the tarry keel
of narrowboats, it floats like leaves on teal
canal, between the worlds and words, and I –
I know not what my secret is.

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