Knock, Knock
A Poem by Andrew Motion
Never the sound alone it is— that absolute sharp knock a beak makes as it strikes immaculate the iron trunk then carries like a summons through a frizz of closer trees the wind has staggered bare and left with branches raised in attitudes imploring clouds to keep their distances away, not fall—it is the echo also traveling behind so rapidly it blurs into a softer sound, a rumor of the death it dies.
