In Moseley Park, this Saturday, a black dot went behind the thought I hadn’t written down.
In fact it replaced that, preliminary, sentiment which made the same objects “something” boring,
and deflected the view from this unwritten spur.
a black dot of a baby
The poorly working ache, which I had put in my ear after she had quickly caught the second bus, contributes to the embattled idea
When the light roves round
And, again, unwritten
We will surely die
The notion of that has to withstand the drift falls of soft white clumps over the hazy murk of the pool, and so
There is a certain quantity
of peace, when I don’t
Its father, its parent, swam back and they touched opening beaks. It fed, peck peck went dad back. Then dad was gone and it dabbled around the fragmented shelter of the rhodedendron.
The swan had heckled
The heron had heckled for their fear of eating
but the moorhen would slide down easily.
It was in the quietness,
that an even tinier figure came sailing in, a captain of tiny tug boat.
Straight out from the rhodedendron, a lil thing coming into the open water, in fact was turning in a constant tiny circle.
The realisation grew sadly that it had a little white tail, a black top, lighter middle and something in the air on its right.
At the edge of the rhodedendron’s
over the rumbling
body of purple
a clear body rotates
Daddy’s popping under and out, but shows no interest.
It went in and its wake makes a ridge bending the bee straight inside the plant.
The spread of mud flares (a 70s throw back at some point) a gentle starkness between the pond side life. A couple come right by behind the tree I swing round to hunt and but I see clearly inside the structure of the rhodedendron, nothing.
But enough time for a resurrection had passed, I must have thought, seeing another 3 fold face supping in the quite fade flower.
Back on the bench. I’m looking again at the white roving over the cup of the pond.
A child like voice from an older white man,
to a younger woman
holding his hand who comes babbling curious round the tree,
but is alarmed in my still periphery away
No, 3. 3 little chicks.,
all moofin together,
and my my daddy daddy daddy
What he wrote – Laura Marling
Lover to Lover – Florence Welch
Daddy, daddy, daddy – Janis Joplin]
The cacophony of birds,
and inside the plant,
lots and lots of meeps, and one mop
run daddy run
for you can’t fly off
what is help
3. 3 little chicks
or water drops
the bamboo crackled