The Pheasant

The Pheasant

Was it the pheasant today?
with its headlong neckstretched waddle across the road
it seemed to know I would slow for its
tiny little head
those perfect fat hat feathers
black hat funeral feathers

The other day it was invisible hands
covering mine as I drove
entwined, big ,dry, warm
as if the ghost of you sat behind me
moulding clay

Last night it was the radio heard through
the wall

It is the lost Gospels
telling of meaning or love
that no longer fit the Canons
of the lives we chose