look to the Passenger Moon
with her iridescent bronze feathers
and black-spotted wings, captured
on camera a century ago, and know:
none of us was built to last the famine.
You long for a hand to hold, don’t you?
No-one wants to be the last of their kind.
A Friday 55 for the old year in its death throes.
|Ink, Pen & Paintbrush Illustration|