Tyburn

Tyburn

Words by Andrew Nicol

I am touched

Not by the dirt beetle

Nor the crevice of night

But my empathy is with a star

Confiding on my shoulder

Sound travels down this hill

And the wind rolls up it

Trembling with my budding hands

That shake about my head

Curl up

Between my gnarled thighs

Dirt beetle or lost child

This time is slow and my voice

Is inaudible

Six feet deep

Under the ground; gurgling

Your palm pushes near my toe

Shake dirty curly child

Through the night grow(s)

And through the night it grows…

I think that (the) spring is five days walk from here

I'll wait through and watch it come undone

There's a frozen whisper near me

That will chuckle come daylight

In a near ditch

You tilt your head upward

And shake my bony hand

With your blackbird glove