Prints

I write so many words in lines, chopped,
short,
long, all flowing like stream water into the echoing culvert

and out of sight beyond,
into the dark of bird-flutter,
cradled by tree and bramble.

I write so many in the light and dark
and quiet of dog-snuffle and stove-mutter,
let them flutter into the chimney-sky, papery ash.

Will I write them in a book and bind them tight,
set fast their colours trembling on the brink
like sap, pearling in sweet drops on the cut stem?

Perhaps,
if it were impossible,
I would.