Karen Macfarlane

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Above the plastic-cluttered high tide line
there’s an empty pair of wings. Probably
a kittiwake, with feathers of pearl grey,
ink-dipped and grafted to a stub of spine.

The rest of what made it a kittiwake
is gone: the head and lungs and crying call,
but nothing wants these two wings. What would? All
the world knows that only the birds can make

anything of them. A sudden gust flips
them over, the wind knowing well how to
lift this structure it evolved. They leave two
scoops in the dry sand, symmetrical dips

like those corny angels I made with you
in the snow. At least it’s something to show
for what was left; but even that will blow
away. The wind knows how to shift sand, too.

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Karen Macfarlane lives in Perthshire and spends as much time as possible letting Scotland’s coast and islands inspire her. She is studying for a BA (Art & Humanities) with the Open University. Her poetry and non-fiction have appeared in various magazines, including Poetry Scotland and Spelt.