So, if we are bits of dust,
flecked from explosions
in a sky fitted with starlight
and supernovas, is waking up
a call to leave what we know,
to a Black Hole that is birth,
not death, as we think of it?
Six swans rode through my sky this morning;
afternoon stole my head to beating waves. Geese leave noisily
as I empty tumble drier. The garden hangs in mist.
Needle and thread on desk points out
black holes and how they need sewn up to stop us,
my Mum and Dad, and the sisters,
from being thrown out, broken up.
But falling stars and meteorites
feel cold and hot on my thoughts:
Hooker’s fairy bells
group in garden growing.
The Just Joey rose for Dad,
yellow poppies for Mum,
sit in black hole of death or birth.
Copyright © Christine Ford 2016