White Bird-Red | 1982 | ink and paint on lithograph | unique | 10 x 8 inches
by Alison Croggon
The bird is
a deep and troublesome fidelity.
Even as maggots crawl through its braincase, it is still a bird.
In the skirl of storm
it is bird, torn feathers, tiny bones,
breasting the weight of air.
Its song pricks out the present
but is the shape of itself, the whole heart-trembling arc
of its small time.
It perists through winters and summers,
never less than bird.
If it knew any better, I would call it courage.
Somewhere beyond me
is a wholeness, a memory of being stone,
although this consoles nothing and explains nothing.
The dark is a burning sky
shot with flight, its solitary, naked love.