Inheritance

A bird rises into the grey. My eyes graze along wingspan, colour, tail, but

I have nothing. Too big for a falcon, I know, they’re small beasts.

Each time I find myself wanting to walk the miles and miles home,

find my father, building his guitars in the kitchen, furrowed dark look as he does,

And make him unfurl to me all he can on bird and tree. Hours on pinions and

Swooping. Ash trees are tall and pale with purple flowers. Elms are dark

with rough bark and leaves. On my shelves are books that

tell me these things but they wash clean from my mind.

A great brown flash glides over the treeline, Redkite, maybe.

I sit by the window catching glimpses, silent behind the music

of wind through trees under wings.