Words fly down from high places
to congregate as sentences
where the foothills turn to texts
and stories true and false
begin to spread their wings. Nobody
knows which to believe: the ones
with long, curved beaks or
those with stars sprinkled on
their feathers of the night. Murder
watches from the thermals
and romance
with its rosy face
chatters all the way from
lonely heart to lonely heart.
Tales from ancient myth
appear, suspended
from a mystery and with
endings beyond credibility
with an iridescent glow
and a heartbeat faster
than fear’s.
David Chorlton
.