The Flying Geese
by Michael Brett

In exile, time no longer flies:

It becomes a ploughman with a heavy clay and a stupid horse,
Forever, looking backwards at tilting tree stumps,
Missing homes.

I look up at the flying geese.

Their wings curve as the great barrel vault arches of the sky curve,
Each seemingly carved in stone, only crooning
As swan wings croon, as if stone church angels had found voices
Among icebergs and harbours where fishing boat masts
Stroke the wine glass polar rim;

And the refugee mind divides, becomes
A Habsburg eagle pinned in a butterfly case,
Looking both ways forever and
Useless to anyone save a museum or collector,
A rich man.

Copyright © 2012 - Michael Brett
Published: 3/1/12   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem