The boomerang bird is back with us again, the tireless sickle, slashing swathes of wind inflicting wounds with wicked scything wings, shrieking summer’s swift ecstatic pain.
It flings itself at frightened insects, flies on whittled blades, deadly smooth and fast, recoiling every spring to England’s fist after autumn hurled it from the skies.
An agony of earthlessness suspends the bird in the air, the bird that’s born to live in the air, that flirts in flight, that coos its love and glides to sleep in the air, revives, ascends and drops on dithering victims that didn’t believe the scimitar swish could speed their summer’s end.
I live in Harrogate, Yorkshire, where I run the local spoken word open mic group. I sometimes perform poetry at festivals and writers' groups and I have four published books, the latest of which is a 437-sonnet "verse novel" called God The Banana.
I disappeared into the looking a birdsong I had stepped off the brick path and was kneeling in the dirt circumscribed in time and space kindness burning indifferent to my bliss the night full of clouds in the morning the
Listen closely. Do you hear it? Do you hear the song of the caged bird? Listen harder. Listen to her yearning. Listen to her cries from being locked away for years on end. She wants to be set free. She