straining the birds

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Straining the Birds



I'm outside now. I scream to you
through flat sweep wind and wheat.

The front rolls in, days late,
eiderdowning soft across my ticking car,
the dogbarked moon, and me.

Jesus! I just drove here from Stockwell!
Dodging the fireflies (there are no fireflies);
hurling my pale whisky puff into space.

This time of night it's ninety miles to petrol.
I could be stuck here at this dance for weeks,
whipped with its mad whorl and spin;
straining all the birds out, like a tree.


Philip White












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