I dropped them for sparrows, let them squabble
over their husks, peck them from gravel.
I let the sun bleach them bonewhite,
desiccate their flesh, shrivel roots.
I turned away while brambles razorwired,
shredded and choked their promise, snared.
I’ll make good with a swinging adze, my spade,
this scythe. Next time, I’ll give you ground.
• This poem first appeared in Raum #3
Like a cat, I beat with sweat
the bounds of home: it is the stride
on flagstones, gravel, city road;
it’s the capacity of lungs
to hoist tired legs up to the moor;
the lift of stinging eyelids
to observe goldfinches flurry
from a dry stone wall, watch swallows
dart between taut wires;
it’s to grasp these sheets of sky
and stuff my vision with the hills:
own none of it at all, and call it mine.
This poem was published in Clear Poetry, October 2015
I almost wrote a poem:
piled metaphors like bricks
of Lego, hoped their reds
and blues would somehow stick.
I varied tone and pace,
turned streams to rivers:
and then froze them, hoping
to give you the shivers.
I took a point of view,
perversely changed it, then
soared skywards, thinking you
might turn your head again.
I shifted gear, thought speed
might help improve my aim.
Striving to hold the light
I changed the form and frame.
My arrow almost hit.
The monster almost stirred.
The mountain almost moved.
I almost found the words.