This poem originally appeared in Islet, Winter 2010. Islet was a project of Island Magazine, which later ceased publishing it and did not retain the archives. I was sad that the poem, which is one of my personal favourites, was no longer available anywhere, so have republished it here.

 

Who made the bird drop

by Belinda Rule (c)

On the occasion of a funeral.

 

Who made the bird drop
into the valley like a stone,
scything the air in halves
sweet as a peach?
Who made the valley fall away
so sharp and sweet, the earth bitten open
avid and deep? Who fluffed the plush
canopy of the trees
and inked the black beneath?

Is this yours: distant thunder of laughter
from the lights behind the glass
as I stand here in the dark, apart?
What about this stone like a sickle,
small as a coin? This leaf like a tongue?
This roaring across the valley that could be
anything. Is that you?