Cover image: Fatal Exit

In Time Distorted

In my hand,

a feather;

just one, only one.

I lift it up

towards my face,

pause when it’s level

with my mouth,

and I purse my lips,

let out a breath

that lifts it

just high enough

for it to become

caught on the updraught,

and raised by the wind.

It twists and twirls

as it rises,

getting higher

and higher

until, without warning

it’s no longer gracing

my sky.

The feather is gone,

it’s vanished.

It’s no real mystery to me

for I’m almost sure

that the feather has traveled

to another time,

a distant place,

before it began to

spiral down.

I smile

as I let myself picture it

delicately drifting downwards

until it comes to rest

in the golden goblet

of some ancient king

or queen -

a portent of times to come.

Submitted: April 08, 2020

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Add Your Comments:


Mike S.

Another feathery-good poem, Hull--and just what that means, I have no idea!

Wed, April 8th, 2020 6:19pm


I'll be moving on to... roses, I think. At least for a while. Thanks for giving this a read.

Thu, April 9th, 2020 1:02pm


Interesting poem, Hully. Nonetheless, another fine piece that you conjured up.

Wed, April 8th, 2020 8:17pm


The last of the crow/feather ones for a while. Thanks, Reaper.

Thu, April 9th, 2020 1:00pm

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