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ust the Wind

The bus drives past, then pulls over further up,

making her walk into deeper thoughts.

The incident casual, casual and wilful

and everywhere and endless. Where does,

precisely, the white merge on a magpie?

Why do the dark feathers always seem

to want to swallow more of their own?

The blue iridescent sheen and green gloss

are lost to such stark camouflage.

And where's the journey's Samaritan ways,

when lines of lives are led away swiftly?

She draws a line on the dirt-encrusted window.

Always, between the stops, there's the waiting.


And the sounds. Just the wind.


Deep, deep in the woods there's concern - and sounds.

And the alarm of machine gun chattering.

And Magda wonders, and draws a circle,

desperate to close the gap for being

blamed again for the missing implements:

the silver hidden in other's thieving nests.

Her beautiful deep-set eyes blink a glance,

while the passengers brood their denial,

fixedly watching the road ahead.

She returns to her circle and notices a gap:

her safety without enclosure,

The circumference of trees outside watches her.

Always, between the stops, there's the silence.


And the sounds. Just the wind.


The day has started to drain away,

to shade to grey.  It gets late early,

and she no longer feels safe enough.

She can no longer see their faces

bathed in the glow from some inner holy crown.

Arrows cross late at night on this road,

and bus tyres have been known to explode.

She gets off early in expectation,

the driver leaving a lurch behind, especially.

A duck or a rabbit watch her a field away.

In the distance, a kakukk sounds in a tree.

Magda listens intently for shifting shade.

Always, between the stops, there's the movement.


And the sounds. Just the wind.



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