Death of a Humming Bird

Is this how it will be
the last quickening?
A chest full of flight,
wings beating backwards.

Your tiny body hovering
just out of reach.
Pale petalled hands grown old
withered in the waiting.

The darting in and out of memory
sweet rush of longing
withdrawn on a tongue
sticky with lies.

A torpor of hope
weighing less than a feather
balanced on a finger
stroking a cheek
soft and damp as moss.

Lips crusted in sea salt
speaking only of the past.
The air between us hanging
white as a sheet ready
to be pegged out.

A flapping, slapping space
a nest full of bones,
skin pulled tight as a lampshade
stitched around a glow.

Racing over waves, tides revolving,
flumes of feathered plumes
sparkling and dipping.
And there you are sipping
from an Angel’s Trumpet

 

Marion Oxley lives in the Calder Valley, on the cusp of Lancashire and West Yorkshire. She has had poems published in various poetry magazines and anthologies including Bare Fiction, Ink, Sweat and Tears, the Ekphrastic Review, Three Drops Press, The Island Review.