There is a blackness like a furl of smoke
hurtling and twisting fast across the sky—
it shudders and explodes
and shards of shrapnel fly
upwards, bursting, bursting, then condense,
cascading down, and cresting to bespatter
the air above us as the starlings scatter,
and then the flock implodes,
flattens once again, and forms a cloak
of undulating wing-beats, recompense
for having had the sense
to go outside and see the things that matter.
Dear John Beaton, there is a Beaten track in the journey one takes on South Simcoe Railway. It is a beautiful poem and it is fitting that it win but as I inform you, I have ridden the South Simcoe Railway and been to the Beaten track. Is it your painting for it is apt and well done.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Such a well crafted poem! Thanks for sharing!