We blow rictus words Forth, dear Night-Mother, Pluming, brushing, still Filling mouthlings all, The uncanny worm; Plunges, head-first, whole. Sinking little feet, The bracken stings us, Anchors us, lucky Save plunging, outward, Out there, outside, into Sky-fold, cloudless pit. We caw, we cry, we Lament loamy grounds We helpless tumble. We are not nimble, We are brave, we are Catching, like our claws We catch the worm on Sunny days, under Rain, or peaches cloud. Little leaves of gold Craven umbrellas, Tumble, they tumble They save us, above They wait, nacreous. We huddle, brothers. Our feathers are warm, Our feathers are warm! We are mud, gold, ash And opal. Always, Rounded and wholesome, Just like our Mother.
© copyright Eve Redwater 2011