November night
I thought the fireworks
was someone knocking
the dark wanting to be let in
as rain drilled itself
into the wrists of the trees
turning their flaming fingers
dark with grease
to keep the forge from fading
they smear the slowed pistons
of winter’s heart
with summers blood
bellows barely breathing
already started the slow sweat
of next spring’s colours
Shoals Of Starlings 