Two Poems
Fiona Benson, 14 August 2008
I keep going back to that bird, snagged by a halter or skein of fibre or yarn and strung from the gutter of the opposite house where it quartered the wind, each bead of its spine and the dead-drop of its skull lit up against the breeze-block wall, claws pushed out as if skidding to a halt while its beak transmitted code.
I say a prayer to you, small ghost, small noosed spirit of the...