Kestrels
followed us, the whistling kestrel
and
the black kelstrel too.
Their
twiggy nests were balanced
in
the skeleton trees we passed
as
the priest drove us through the desert
over
scented herbs and seedy grass heads,
through
creeks and boggy lake edge pools.
The
women painted lake mud on our faces, necks,
arms
and legs. The serpent watched.
The
kestrels hovered like spirits
or
like questions no one’s answered yet.
We
swam like worshippers and left
dripping
lake water on our laps and feet.
The
kestrels kept to the heights
until
we bogged, bogged hopelessly in mud
the
distracted, blessed priest drove us into.
The
kestrels settled on their trees
and
watched us falling to our knees
and
chaining car to car in the hope that
by
some miracle the wheels would grip
so
life could take its usual course again,
no resurrections, no magic, just the shadow of a kestrel
crossing
the yard in the morning, the ordinary morning.
Oh Kevin, your poetry is so subliminal and effective. You are in the zone.
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