The Sky Speaks To Me Poem by Shikhandin Shikhandin

The sky speaks to me
of pollen disintegrating in the wind,

of sparrows whose silences
chitter louder each day,

of moisture that falls flatly to the ground
long before the rain clouds have ripened.

The sky whispers
of cold fruit wrapped in paper,

stealthily growing their false lusciousness.
Grain rotting in silos, feeding rats and voles.

The sky mutters darkly
of foraging mothers, who watch

the bellies of their children distend,
scabby skin clinging to jointed knees.

The sky warns of song-less air, of wind
stepping low, waters lapping at emery shores.

The sky carries tales of earth creatures
whose mysteries will never be revealed,

and of those that are waiting their turn
with dripping fangs.

The sky expands and contracts. The sky
tries to clasp the eagle as it flies

straight into the firmament's dark bosom.
The eagle dares and dares again. And then

dives down to the ground.

(First Published in Crannog, Ireland)