In the feathers

It begins in the wings of doves

the message flies in the pearl space

between the barbs on zephyrs of baked air

spice sodden honey thick scent, golden

baklava fresh from the oven, scented

with cypress resin and thyme, with clay

dust to prickle and score the throat pepper-

green olives of chalk and brine, sweet dark

savours swept and saved in each wing beat –

it ends in mausoleums on the beach of salted

cloth and rotted nylon, foam and petrol

gun oil, khaki and flesh – tossed in the sea

and laid to rest so delicately

on the sand – rocked, like a baby

by the waves, seaweed garlanded –

it ends where baking soles march on

blackhot tarmac to seal the gates or in acid-

ripe sweat in a carriage Berlin bound

or in dust and cornfields and rails

and razor wire and blood and mud and

the feathery sour scent of hope.