Giving Thanks
Because you asked for poems of hope, I have decided to write
the saddest words. Because writing is itself an act of hope.
Here is your hope, this spray of heron feathers below
the abandoned rookery. I stop on the path, give them
their moment of silence and then, as an act of defiance,
give them voice. I give them the hard word gun-metal
to name their particular shade of blue.
I give them the words stiff to describe the shorn
quills and loose to describe the way they still move.
Because you asked for poems of hope, I have decided
to tell you about my brother’s death, how he sang
until he couldn’t sing, then danced in his hospice bed –
emaciated arms and legs flailing under white sheets.
Because you asked, I speak. I testify for the losses
in this world, for the swamps drained dry
and the resident swans that circle looking for
their old northern home. I testify in the harshest
words, because in protest there is belief, belief
in change and change is life, is living, is re-
becoming, and hope is stiff grey feathers
lifted by wind.