Flamingos


We go to Maguelone,
The sky dark with salt,
Black in the south,
And the Middle Sea tearing at the shore.
The pink question marks
That are flamingos
Unfold into exclamatory flight –
Prehistoric dashes in the grey air,
Red certainties punctuating turmoil.

By the canal, boat debris,
And a café for travellers,
Shut for the winter.
We are here when my questions
Do not find answers.
None found in the cold cathedral.
And, in the étang,
The flamingos land,
Becoming question marks again.

By Henry Berry

flamingos at sunrise in shallow water


Henry Berry lives in a rambling old house in the rural Vale of York, England. His writing focuses on external and interior, mental landscapes inspired by intimate contact with the countryside immediately around his home. His blog can be found at www.henryberry.blogspot.com/

Photo by cber969

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