Murmuration

after Thom Gunn

. . . because I only ever listen to music now
on YouTube–looking for lo-fi, or anything

ambient, to trigger melancholy: 'the ruins 
of yesterday', 'the cars keep passing, and we 

keep waiting'; no words, just good vibes–I’ve 
begun to forget the bramble warmth of talcum 

powder and Ice Cool body spray. We don't 
shower with chemicals anymore, but the candles 

are all battery operated, and I miss the feeling 
of missing something that's no longer here. 

The word in Welsh, is ‘hiraeth’, and even as I 
roll the 'R' it's already raining again in the fold; 

a cold fumbling rain, thundering onto the paper, 
humbling the black ink back to its living state; 

this moribund procession of words weeping 
towards each other for comfort; funneling 

into communal confession, the booth:
the blotting paper of reflection.

I have seen starlings fly in those mesmerizing 
orchestrations we might call a murmuration: 

together in a dusk of choreographed 
complaint, counting amongst themselves, 

the fittest and the sick, the swift 
and the slick, and I have been 

a sole summer bat, who flies in a tunnel 
of darkness; the long hall of echoes; 

with only the ears to hear, to steer 
true, steer clear, the nadir of the self, 

resonant in tiny chatter; the thousandfold 
wing, aflare and fluttering; merging with 

the hammer-ons; forget about the pull-offs; 
one hand, many frets: the only honest chorus.

Summer bats only ever fly 
in murmurations of their own making–

How did we ever think, we were ever 
any different? When did seeing come to rely 

on opening a pair of eyes? May as well 
ask the dead, push the bar, pass away;

soles skidding on a wet wooden floor, 
varnished with the light of an EXIT sign;

from stadium gig to silent disco, cold and over 
long ago, and I’ve been alone a long time, dancing

to ‘Dream Town (Extended)’ from ‘Fallout II 
Ambient Soundscapes’, and I can't remember 

when I stopped being a starling to become 
a bat who longed to be a starling again, 

when cloudy skies weren't a thing, and 
lighting candles didn't matter . . .

Photo by Daniel Morris on Unsplash

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