Poem Without Words An afternoon in early you know it has birds in it the time of year they're always writing about things grow the whatever shines. I'm sitting here trying to read on the patio and the thing I mentioned earlier is on the chimney the flying thing you notice them about now whistling. They say it never does the same song twice or is it that no two ones do the same one as each other? They sing in their own languages so they know which is which. It almost means something. Evening is coming. Before I go inside I want to finish this - what the breeze is reading with me. It's shut. Where have I got to? They're all the same these these. It was the Swiss artist friend did it if there was one. No not him the woman with the pearls and they found a pearl in the man's suit in the hem of his hm. Perhaps I'll read the end. Perhaps I have. I don't want to know who did it. Who did they do it to? And now my black visitor is here rubbing her pointy face against me like a boy-whatsit starting a fire. What do you want then? She doesn't say the one vowel she knows. Do you want your stuff that comes in a tin? Actually she'd rather get her hooks into that small flies it likes to sing you know it is flexing the usual turns of phrase on the rooftop but with a new twist. Today is going inside. Small flies are stuttering in what is the last and most elusive light. There it is again. You know when I heard it first I must have been oh. Too dark to read now. It makes you think. Blackbird, blackbird. from Blizzard by Matthew Francis published by Faber and Faber. ISBN 0-571-17854-5. Copyright © Matthew Francis, 2000. Back to Home Page Back to Blizzard