January 13, Friday, the Present Turn.

How
yellow the beak
Of a blackbird picking that
Red hawthorn berry
From a perennial twig.
 
The Crematorium sends
Puffs of someone’s soul alight
Juniper berries
Tint the cemetеry fragrances.
 
Pale smoke outlined
Against the grey skies
By mere imagination
Colourless.
 
How colourless the thought
Outlined against memory
Of a blackbird yellowly
Devouring red upon green.

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