A Jay Feather
�for Lynda
I know of a wood that hangs
like a heavy drape
flung over a hill in the midlands.
You can hear jays deep in its folds
tearing like engines
at the fabric of a winter�s day.
Way down in the leaf litter,
beyond where it is normal
or decent for a walker to go,
there must be a fragment of that blue,
that eye through which you dive on a thread,
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