It was my grandpa who lured Old Methuselah out from the tannic depths of the lake. We were fishing for marron in the shallow waters of a small bay beside the dam wall, the jarrah forest at our back ... [+]
John Davies' poem, "Preserving the Last Starling," is in Short Circuit #05, Short Édition's quarterly review. An exiled Scouser in Ireland, John’s work appears in Maine Review, Rosebud, Pedestal, Southword & ‘Influenced’ (Muskeg Press). Twitter: @johndavies1978.
The bird containedwithin a bone-melded cagetries to breathe:a bubble of air rises,a pump slowly concertinas;water drips steadilyas anaesthesia into a bottomless dish.The dangling oval glassbanishes all the birdimagined itself before.Fluttering it climbs,climbs to the high perch;nestles there in the boxmade for dreaming,and the entire cage thrums when it sings.