Mireille Astore

A Feathered Postcard

 

On my window sill

there is a vase

and a poem.

In the vase

there are five feathers.

They tickle me with forgotten voyages.

The tuft at the bottom scatter

like tentacles peering over my desk

they listen to words I scribble in a hurry.

The poem

printed as a postcard

about two hens sitting in the sun throwing
seeds of hope to winds of a future

has bent and split corners.

They tell of hundreds of people fumbling it
through a rack of postcards

of a friend placing it in her insecurities
filled handbag

of her scratching the back with sinuous thoughts

of a long wait in a dark letter box

of a journey at ten thousand metres

and of me

reading it a thousand times over

memorising ten years worth of unspoken words.

 

©Mireille Eid