Poem 541

Similar to Poem 165 and yet another spin on et in arcadia ego …

( I like the image of dry grass, the bird making a nest of itself and the sense that in this moment of pleasure and perspective looking out at the view we also are being crowded towards the edge … )

Picnic

The bird that crumbles before the cliff
whose shit is more permanent
than its bones
makes a last nest of itself here
beside the updraft
the brittle marrow-drawn grass
of the edge
                       there is hardly
enough room for our rug
we drape it carefully
over the few feathers beak and bones
and eat sandwiches
on the tartan grave