The Raven

Oh, my raven! My saviour! You are the transcending flight from the cloudless blue of heaven; the tenacious one who lovingly snatched my hair ribbon in the grass. Out of the swirling sky came your majestic shape. Even your patched wing could not change the healing you brought to me. Beady eyes shot with black truth ushered in my purification. You were a flying, probing reality, and I lay under your wings for shelter, feathers black as a coal tit. Your limitrophe feathers were sleek like the floodtorrent cruising down the river of torment; more like the raging blood in my sickened heart. Chrestomathy was the human diagnosis, but you were having none of that, and engorged a cuckoo feather to show me how foolish I was.

 

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Claudia Anne.         July 21/13

The House Speaks

The house says, 'yesterday I was five rooms of heartache. I heard the crying through my walls. For days I knew trouble was bungling my wallpaper. Catastrophic cracks appeared on all the ceilings. The dominant doors swung open at inappropriate moments-when my inhabitants were undressing or going to the toilet. What had been a magnificent edifice was now a poor ruin. I was always much more than they knew. I was always a home in my brick heart.'

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