Читать книгу Monica's Overcoat of Flesh - Geraldine Clarkson - Страница 15

You drew a perfect circle in the sand.

Your talent was upfront, a nonpareil.

Your hands pearled plumage for the birds

you’d turned in clay. Or so they’d say—to me

it seemed you’d plucked each, sleeping, from the shore,

a shout of black and white, fresh-dipped in pitch

then lime. Or robbed a singing bird or two

from forest stores and with your fingers calmed

and stroked their tiny flanks and shivering coverts

till their dun forms became like putty in your palm,

and drawing out their song you daubed it,

in sticky glaze, along stilled feather-vanes.

Then looped a cape of scarlet, provocative,

around the throat of the brilliant male.