Runcible Spoon

poetry and prose webzine

Poetry Prose Submissions Contributors Home heart logo Privacy Notice Links Mark Totterdell

Gap

 

I’m at the city centre crossroads.

I’ve missed the swoop. I’m here mid-action;

the feather-flurry, the dark fury

already gripping soft mother-of-pearl.

 

A bolt from the grey, bang on the x-spot.

It screams for meanings. A mind-stirrer.

A myth-seed. A poem-trigger.

 

The pigeon, dazed, somehow doesn’t quite

stumble under a bus, lives on.

The peregrine, empty-taloned, jets

up the street, shatters the flock to fragments.

 

This wouldn’t matter if it hadn’t happened

just so, just then, in the gap between

a death and my knowing of it.