In ancient art, birds always seem to carry
a hint of the unworldly;
their fragile bodies just the physical expression
of some god
intruding on our world.
Flight and song; the essence of occult.
We praise them in bowls of water
left as mirrors
for them to bathe in,
and with propitiatory offerings of seed.
At Poetry Thursday this week they invited people to post a line from one of their own poems, and then use a line posted by someone else in their own poem. If that’s clear. Anyway, the line ‘we praise them in bowls of water’ is from a poem by Poet With A Day Job.