In the dismal garden at Pilmour
I watched old Borges, blind man leaning
on his stick among the iron trunks of beech,
a wind-dark canopy of claws above him.
Gusts of salt wind swayed the trees,
rippling the feathers of the bracken floor.
βItβs rooks,β he said, ears opening like palms.
The empty headlights of his eyes turned up.
So Borges listened and was birds.
A soot-cloud rose, world-blackening,
the hard-by thunder of a thousand birds
who called his name now: Borges, Borges.