Black Mohair
tight sky closing in to
rub out the gap from
where you begin,
is this where you end,
black mohair jumper?
delicate natural fibre,
perfectly silky once,
uncontrived, arched
back on a bridge, ever
so slightly supported
by stark nothing of
course, thwarted in
language too sparse
to describe
ultimate autonomy,
is a note
of intention fast asleep
in quick silt on a last
straw sticking out of
the Tyne? will a single
affectionate white
feather gently prise
your fingers apart?
and I hope you have
wings.
