Sunday 19th October



A Kestrel dives into a field ditch, pauses, hangs in the air,
adjusting. Underbelly white as the undersides of model
aeroplanes I locked myself away with as a boy, escaping to
meditate in the effluvium of glue & paint. Kestrel suspended
on the wind, tiny sky dart, focused on fractional oscillations,
a flash of yellow where white turns grey as a sea planes wings,
catapulted from the rolling decks of floating cities
(battleship grey).
We drive, unable to speak, smiling, eyes radiant, wide,
windows down, hairdos abandoned to the wind. It rattles
around us, thrills us, conjuring autumn receipts from
side pockets, shuttles parking tickets along the dashboard,
fluttering, scuttling, stuttering against the windscreen
in black, white, black, white rhythms. Kestrel hesitates,
disturbed by our passing, pulls away, indignation in it’s
thread-needle eye, gives submits to the wind to rise with
delicate skill, trimming it’s wings to arc across vast acres
of parallel lines. Winter seedlings reach up to touch it’s
flight with sweet green tips, rippling in rhythms, bending in
waves at the passing of such fabulous Autumn winds.


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