Bats by Robert Ford


We wait for them, evening, like monks,
with the pale flames of our fire relaxing
down into their pit, to arrive overhead
in blurred circuits of Brownian motion
traced into the grey frame of the sky.
Under the thick silence of evening,
each sound carries an equal weight:
the muted shrilling through windows
of a neighbour’s unanswered phone;
a chain of empty freight wagons
crashing their way south along the
distant railtracks; the lacy movement
of their wings rippling the air. We dare
not speak, almost dare not breathe.

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Robert Ford lives on the east coast of Scotland. His poetry has appeared in both print and online publications in the UK and US, including Antiphon, Clear Poetry, Eunoia Review and Ink, Sweat and Tears. More of his work can be found at

Photo credit:  Terri Malone

Audio: Susan C. Ingram


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