Ashby McGowan


Her feathers grasp at the cold air, as she climbs high
In an asymmetrical sky
Against the winter storm, she fights, then glides
Then up again, then down she slides.

She seems, a splash of black paint on a canvas bright
Or a cracked remnant of forgotten night
Neither picture is quite right
She is heart and pain, and feathers and delight

When I am not there to see, she still can fly,
She needs no armchair watcher to watch her, passing by

I do not understand her and her ill-dressed nation,
But she looks for neither understanding nor admiration
All she asks is that I do her no harm
As she flies over field and flies over farm,
Into the charcoal smudged clouds, through and behind,
And out of my mind.

Copyright © Ashby McGowan 2013

I am a performance poet who also does multi-voice: with Chromatic Voices 2. A recent video of our work can be found at:


About sunnydunny

Poet, publisher, gardener
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