For Batty

[boodie]

Flying Foxes

The Flying Foxes hang, head down,
All day, with hooded eye,
Like bags of witches washing, strung
Along the trees to dry.

At sundown, they begin to stir
And stretch and screech and stare;
Unfold thier leather wings and dive
Into the darkening air.

Like black, burnt paper-scraps they drift
Around the windy sky
To feed, and circle home, and meet,
And hook themselves on thorny feet
To sleep-almost, to die.


(c) Lydia Pender