Bewick

Here’s Thomas peering close at how the feathers lie,
Thomas wearing out his eyes, checking for the bone
on bone alignment, the cutting tool
he’s honed himself, precise
as a surgeon’s . He knows the blade
can slide, that wicked sideways feint-
I’ve baulked at myself- how it can skid
and pierce a vein… As for how it hums
with life, this print no bigger than his palm,
I’ve tried for that as well, drawing
in the garden, nasturtiums florid spill,
great globes of alium, elusive evening light.
The smallest mark and it’s all wrong.
The smallest mark and it’s all right.