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.
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
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.