Читать книгу Birds, Metals, Stones and Rain - Russell Thornton - Страница 8

Squall

The clinking becomes a ringing,

solid and clean. The spikes go straight

into the wide earth, the four poles

into the sky. The canvas bells

and flaps, and stays taut in the wind.

That is the tent in a lost camp.

The drumming deepens and quickens.

Wild and intricate, it allows

a melody to break from it,

a mist to lift off it and through.

That is the wet ghost that will ride

along the edges of the flesh.

The plane surface stands brilliant

within the vastness of metal,

and a winged drop of a small bird

flies chirping out of a keyhole.

That is the newborn that unlocks

the clear mirror door of the rain.