David Abbott

A castle-full of falconers


A castle-full of falconers. The mist dances with knowing. A gallery of standing artists, walls of wall hangings. Hounds and brass bells the toot of long horns. A crowd. A man on his own watching the moon. Two ladies holding baskets filling them with moss. The mist laughs with unknowing, the teal tourniquet of twilight stuffs glacier day into a the velvet sack of night. Turrets full of minstrels practising for a singing competition. A head in the stocks. Arrows, steel blades, torture implements. Sacks of corn, linen smock, wooden handle for a wooden tool. Thatch that burns, night that displaces reason. Five hundred peasants. A laughing cow. Men around a hi-fi, girls around a fire. Sew, stitch, button, lace. A leather-soled shoe, goose feather bed, pig hair brush, oil filters, wool socks, white gallery wall, solvent headache, the sound of a cathedral choir. Matins. Evensong. Martinmas. A fool's errand in search of the moon. The ache of Christmas’s that can never be again. The broken heart of never again.

October 10, 2022

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