Poem for December 08


The writer and the monk are kin.
Both look into the mystery
From a lonely space.
Both strip the flesh from
Already skinny sonnets.
Sing to some greater glory.
Graze the invisibles.
Mould meaning out of clay.
Seek the one true word.
Utter hymns of longing
To the sacred space.
Read meaning in to ‘holy books.’
Flagellate their thoughts when
The sap rises in their bones.
Interrogate the sky and drive
The blue thoughts earthwards.

Always snatching birds
Out of the sky to plant them
In the garden of their souls.

Stare disbelieving at the rot
of feathers and writing:

These flowers will never bloom.

In countless different ways.

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