Mornington Crescent

Today’s post revisits drafting, after all writing is rewriting. After reading ‘On Poetry’ I thought I would play with form, and my post is an illustration of this play.

Draft Three Mornington Crescent

In the shadow of Richard Corden, an early spring day. When I looked up, I saw pigeons circling, a swoosh and a swoop. There must have been at least fifty. I imagined that each of these birds represented the soul of a life lost in Gaza. If the sky was filled with bird souls, then the sky would be black. The souls would turn day into night. Imagine that many souls flying to heaven. The thought was heartbreaking. It started to rain, and the air smelt/tasted of earth.

Today I thought of trees, plane trees as I walked past, with roots deep in the earth, some over a hundred years old. They stood before all this bloodshed, this thievery, this murder started. Imagine they would speak, they would say, my roots run deep, see, even though my branches are naked, they seem dead, my roots are deep-and I continue. My leaves will return, and as the birds flew to heaven, they did not die, they are now free.

Pigeons circling and settling as we stand on opposite sides of the street, with the police standing in-between. Then the image of notes on the score and black moths flying away into the night, again it was raining.

Images and meaning-well there is the loss of life-no, not loss of life, murder!! The horror of what is happening, the horror of complicity. Trees make me think of renewal, will there be renewal. But renewal doesn’t feel like a given, it feels like a faraway hope. 

Draft Four Mornington Crescent

In the shadow of Richard Corden, and early spring day. When I looked up, I saw pigeons circling, a swoosh and a swoop. 
There must have been at least fifty. I imagined that each of these birds represented the soul of a life lost in Gaza. 
If the sky was filled with bird souls, then the sky would be black. 
The souls would turn day into night. Imagine that many souls flying to heaven. The thought was heartbreaking. It started to rain, and the air smelt/tasted of earth.

Today I thought of trees, plane trees as I walked past, with roots deep in the earth, 
some over a hundred years old. They stood before all this bloodshed, this thievery, this murder started. Imagine they would speak, they would say, 
my roots run deep, see, even though my branches are naked, 
they seem dead, my roots are deep-and I continue. My leaves will return, 
and as the birds flew to heaven, they did not die, they are now free.

Pigeons circling and settling as we stand on opposite sides of the street, 
with the police standing in-between.
Then the image of notes on the score and black moths 
flying away into the night, again it was raining.

Images and meaning-well there is the loss of life-no, not loss of life, murder!! 
The horror of what is happening, the horror of complicity.

Trees make me think of renewal, will there be renewal. But renewal 
doesn’t feel like a given, it feels like a faraway hope. 

Bird Soul                                                          (Draft Five Mornington Crescent)

Look up, to witness pigeons circling, 
shadow of Richard Corden, early spring 
swoop and a whisper, there must have been 
at least fifty, more to be dreamed.
Imagine each of these birds represent
a soul in Gaza lost and spent.
Sky crowded with soul-birds
sky turned black; a day made night. 
Souls ascend to heaven, oh my heart.
It starts to rain, and the air smells of earth.
Souls settle on plane trees, soft breath.
As old as justice, branches spider-webs
to trap the delicate untruths.
Golden leaves will return, they did not die,
a night made white; they are now free.

S.Abdallah ©️