Tyto Alba

field flash
ice in the air
blurred branches

earth to sky
once and only

this heart should rightly have burst
but beauty, but beauty
cold, hard beauty
the slow beat of it holds me

from my claw cradle
those beats
impossible chews of air
casting before behind
mastering the unseen
in colourless unblinking scorn

I am given, Tyto alba
I’ll be that crimson cry
on your pale feather parchment
unknown, but knowing all in
awed assent
feeding your cold white fury

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