Merlin
And once out walking at night
I stumbled across the speckled body
of a small hawk,
the hasp of its wings closed.
One note, one note.
It sings in the rills between words,
between hopes.
It sleeps between leaves in a book,
gathers like dust on the piano.
I heard it once on a green hill
in Aberdeen in short puffs of wind
stirring the new grass among stones.
Prayer could not alter it
nor clods breaking upon bronze.
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