Your voice, swaddled in tweed, and a map
of the world where the sun never sets
on Mum, not to mention her roses.
Her cotton gloves. Her Columbus.
These dead birds a siren for the likes of us,
hunting Darwin, his shadow growing still.
Your voice, swaddled in tweed, and a map
of the world where the sun never sets
on Mum, not to mention her roses.
Her cotton gloves. Her Columbus.
These dead birds a siren for the likes of us,
hunting Darwin, his shadow growing still.