It’s here on the ground,
singular, nestless,
so perfectly blue, with specks
like a far high flock,
that I take it for a plastic toy
or china ornament,
grasping it accordingly,
blunderingly,
so that its liquid gold
and silver workings
trickle to earth between
my dumb, blunt fingers.
By Mark Totterdell
Shortlisted for the Poems Please Me Prize 2014
Mark’s website
Illustration by Jon Munson
