Paperboats Zine

They’d found it on the ground, wing broken,
and rejuvenated it with water, mixed seeds and
Instagram Live.

The wind’s got rain
in its mouth, lets
the rain do the talking:

The Japanese anemones don’t know what to do.
They swither and sway, all dusty-pink confusion.
They’ve never met wind like this before,

The headlines had canvassed the coming storm as ‘once in a generation’ – I doubted that.

Someone will have to stand, to raise their voices.
Unlikely to be the people five miles high
underlining death sentences in vapour trails.

Ankle-deep in still water, bark plump
and yielding to that dark mirror of
liquid – there is some shape here
I recognise.

A robin is singing from the lilac tree. The wistful, doodling song is achingly familiar, yet I realise I haven’t heard it for a while.

Our torches scan the road
lighthouse beams on a dark sea
there on the verge the gleam of amber eyes