The Bird Catcher
He peaks,
out of withered broke feathers
He’ll jump Mr death
one more day,
sizing up the ripe horizon
where are those shiny pretty things?
in the nest:
Voices – stomachs
marbled and knotted,
their worn out windpipes
blocked with inked tissue
and bottled messages.
He nestles them fondly.
He stands up
bones slotting stiffly
into place
cranes long neck
and reaches it upwards
feeling the crinks.
spreads limbs and
SOARS.
the world is so fresh
green and velvety
all flying beneath Him.
sparrows He watches splinder
blackbirds just battle.
its Pheasants today.
red, golden plumage
jewelled crests
imported game.
Beautiful.
net in claw
He swoops, dives and
pins.
bundle of dirty feathers
left matted.
exotic tropical.
He likes the feel
of the words in his
mouth
adding them all
to his fine collection.
Written by: Eva Reppe-Roverselli.
