A day

A day

A day of pewter and dull gold,
river running quicksilver and slow green,
banks sloping steeply to grey pebbles.

River runs low, racing over black rocks,
where stilt-leg birds hunt, the air is full
of water music, herons’ hoarse crying,

and river air is drenched in warm leaf-gold.




Behind the eyes, the migraine flicker,
grainy film, silent, rapid, disjointed.
Night, eyes wide, the film reels on.

Window-framed, lightning flashes,
silent storm, a whole sky white hot,
starless, eaten by fire.

Dawn drenches without turning off the light.

And on the eighth day

I wrote this 7×7 poem and then rewrote it as a sevenling.

And on the eighth day

The days burn like touchpaper,
the blue throbs, fierce pulse beating,
and the bare earth is riddled
with holes, swept of all beauty.
Moles, mice, nothing lives beneath
the field’s cracked skin, lifeblood drained
into the deep, mocking core.

Sevenling (The days burn)

The days burn blue and bronze
with a heavy throb of gongs and drums—
a buzzard glides, mewling.

Chicory blue fades ash grey
into the orange dust,
where black holes gape like mouths.

Roots are white bones, feathered spring flown.

Sevenling: Requiem for a cargo

This news item was never considered as interesting as whether Messi was going to leave Barcelona or not.

In the China Seas, a storm,
in the storm, a ship, a cargo, sinks,
the crew have only life-jackets.

In a storm the ship goes down,
with all hands, forty men, and only two
come back, the rest are lost, the ship,

and the cargo of six thousand cows.