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I breathe the page
A broken wing
Folded back neatly
To a six inch scar
Where tender touch
Distils the words
To lamp dust and fear
Beneath the sheet
With the wind and the rain
As his once old father

The dirt creased lines
Veining each page
Trace their faint trickles
Of nightly palm oil
On a crevassed spine
Where sun-scolded gilt
And feathers splay wide
With the conspiracy wink
Of once old friends

The faithful must
Of each new page
Reminds him of those days
Blacked-out and torchlit
With black and white runners
Who played their silent
Countries of ink as though
Armies fought for the right
Of his once old heart

© David Incoll 2001

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Copyright by David Incoll 2001