i.m. Colin Falck (1934-2020)

It arrived, a something out of nothing, to become
The last good poem you would make, as, out of the dumb
Silence, words, knowing they belonged to other words,
Lit and jostled on the lines, the end of season birds
Along the wires which as one will rise and flock,
Shaping the surrounding air to the curious shock
Of a new being that is captured in the mind’s eye
Before all head off south, leaving an empty sky.