BAT MUSIC

October, dusk and

brushing through leaf-litter

we talked of poets, dead

and living. The children

 

ran ahead, light feet

splashing dark puddles

and radiating sound

along the sharp bright beams

 

of torches. Where do

the poems come from, some-

one asked. You smiled. They’re

out here, waiting. Listen:

 

there, above us all,

were bats, dancing like words

uncaptured, nebulous

and flickering as dreams.

 

Copyright Jon Bridge 2019.