Joan Lennon

crow at the glass
engage again
this time you will make your mark
your claws of diamond
your adamantine beak
crow at the glass
you fling your challenge
you are the gauntlet
satisfaction is demanded
at the price of pane
crow at the glass
again
again

The roofs round here
are slate.

In winter,
frost writes on them -
great sweeping letters
of rimy white
that the wagtail reads in fits and starts,
until they’re all wiped clean
by noon.

In summer,
the sun’s best beat
is nothing much
to shale that’s borne the weight of mountains
and sweated in the dark,
until some miner split them,
sheet by sheet,
and laid them in the air
for seagulls to look down on,
one yellow eye
at a time.

But in autumn,
there is something
altogether homey about slate.
The roofs
with the river beyond
and the sky above -
gray against gray
below gray –
all marbled in the damp,
with here and there
a patch of jade,
secure between the extremes,
neither phoenix nor flamingo -

a resting place
for sparrows.

so still today

pigeons passing
can be heard to creak
                 whale-bone corsets
                 in mid-air

crab-apple blossom
hangs as if encased in glass
                 unbreakable paperweights
                 nailed to a tree

the bridge, reflected,
stretches halfway to shore
                 gossamer concrete
                 for commuting fish

so still today

you want to
                     write small
                     breathe shallow

wind wizards slipstream sailors

honking heralds announcing autumn

bored by borders disdaining distance

skeining southwards                                    skyhounds belling

mapped from memory                threading through 3D

urgent, onwards          aerodynamic aviators

arrow unerringly

wild geese fly

Joan Lennon is from Newport-on-Tay in the Kingdom of Fife.

Biggar Poetry Garden

Joan Lennon

Crow at the Glass

Slate

Still

V is for Voyage