Creative

On the death of a friend

three kestrels fly about st martha’s hill

inscribing their curlicued

illuminations flashing ink

against the greying vellum of the clouds

— three kestrels hover above fields of tarnished gold

three kestrels fly about st martha’s hill

the circle of their meditations

wheeling on the thermals sketching

thin inscrutable litanies the purpose of ritual

— three kestrels screech wordless prayers in the wind

three kestrels fly about st martha’s hill

clawing blood from rain

ripping bone from air waiting

for the chapel bell to toll across the Chantries

— three kestrels brood their praying turned to prey

suddenly — heart stopped — they plummet

one by one falling to

an end an abyssal drop

thrown by gravity to

earth and stone

screams and blood

rust and bone

dust and ash

you clutch your heart/you seize the light/you ride the wind

and then suddenly — heart stopped —

you are thrown

from cloud

to clay

to silence

to kneaded clod

from flesh to bone