Spiritus
A stroke of wingcuts the field of air,its breath-birdfollowing her wind map —a path of gasp and heave.
Inhale of ebblight,exhale of cartography,when Russia falls away from her.
And as she reaches Italyshe is spiritus, anima —she is God's breath.Her lungs full with journey.
Necessary ritual
Fingers dipped into holy water,the grain of the cross drawn on skin.
'God speaks in silence,' he saidwith such certaintyas if he knew all things.
And when I rose, I found myself in prayerwithin this cathedral of wings.
Bless the troublemakers
Bless the skittering swarm falling in and out of sync.Bless their stabbing beaks, bless their iridescence.Bless them when they drape the sky in feathercloud.Bless their grit and cunning, bless their unruly worth.Bless the one taken by falcon, maelstrom scattering.Bless these ragged ravages and unwanted kin.Call them vermin, I call them miracle.
Storm charm
Ink of darkness.The wet brawl is unbounded,tossing the tremulous boat,its cramped cargoof heave and white-knuckle.
A woman throws a charm overboard,special enough for sacrifice,though pitch of murk grows eager still.There's nothing more to offer itexcept vigilance and entreaty.
These are the things that shall emerge from wave:hegira, water bottles, prayer books and plates.
Libby Hart is the author of two books of poetry: Fresh News from the Arctic, which won the Anne Elder Award and was shortlisted for the Mary Gilmore Prize, and This Floating World, which was shortlisted for the Victorian Premier's Awards and the Age Book of the Year Awards, and longlisted for the Prime Minister's Literary Awards.
Holy water image from Shutterstock