In Poetry


I shut myself, up in the cabin –

one generator turning over

coffee, flames, a computer to 

monitor David Attenborough 

and this virus ageing – it’s 

the only clock, except that 

segmented orange sun. 

                                 Whatever it is, it is coming.

I make a hot-spot, count

leaves ticking-over flat

boards. Every thing calendars:

trees, sugar, hedgehogs curled 

round Cedar stilts, muttering –

                                When will it happen?

That was last Winter. We were all dressed-up, giddy with history, and posting kindness from ether…

                                The wind is changing.


You are swimming upstream outside 

big-leaf canopy. I imagine. You are not 

a: natural disaster, political movement 

or search-party from my city-world. 

I smell it, like a virgin-groom

skirting evening. You don’t fear 

dissolving to Fern, forest-floor 

but disappearing into walls, 

                                                     into me.


                                                                                    It is here. 


This morning, I looked out, inhaling forest.

Cardinals dove between portico-beams.

Rain fell warm as breath after noon.

                                                  I did not expect the change to come as it did.

No avalanche of light/ seismic fault-lines/ feet through ground 

but ~ a dull, buzzing wave;      gentle, 




Recommended Posts

Leave a Comment