March of Tiny Beats

[Daibhidh]

I'm not entirely sure how much I personally like this piece of writing, which I scribbled on the back of something on the spur of such a moment. It hasn't been worked on, nor has it been fully understood even by myself. But it is, as I'll say, a piece of my poetry none the less; the only example of which I have close at hand right now.



'March of Tiny Beats'

Sun like honey; sleep covers the floor
And mimics the shape of cats, weeping behind the door.
For me, as human; great in the ranks of life,
I myself am nothing but a snake, creeping after mice.

How then can one dive, like a gull into the rye sea,
If all on which that thrives gives up and ceases to be;
That oil, that my man has procured, blatant and seething
Coats the wings and beaked maw of that moment of landing

Birds –and love; like whispers have for the land and sheiling
The right to eat; retreating as cowards to bury in the sand
Heads that will be counted and weighed, in minutes and hours
For yes, the hawk will circle
And mock the fickle
Clash of our children in the waves.