Hermit of Burrian

posted in: Poetry

He sees the swallow roll

on her back without falling.

He listens for her song

day after day.

His plot is narrow,

he wears a heart of clay.


He bolts the window.

Is that breathing

under cloths in the kitchen?


The wooden birds watch all this happen.

The wooden birds fix him with their stare.


His room is too small,

he cannot read the words on the wall.


He peels the turf without the bone,

he shifts the flagstone without falling.

He stands without falling,

sings against night comers.