They say it doesn’t rain here much, often, but
when it does, canopies of merciless cloud snuff out
every last square of the sky, hanging about the fields
like a quarrel, forgotten without ever being resolved,
and empty themselves in angled swipes that paste
both barley and nettles to the red earth, bleeding into
the leather boots and loafers of commuters on trains,
who steam coolly in their seats all the way into Waverley.
first published in Southlight Magazine, 2017
Before winter’s first frost
an unprecedented silence is combing the air,
and colours are forgetting themselves below
darkening rafts of sky, a universe-deep in stars,
reaching in between the crowded roofscapes.
Perhaps a milk-jug moon is flooding monochrome
ghostlight over the cupped hands of the valley,
laying up shadows with fuse-wire precision.
At the appointed moment, a page is calmly turned,
and a hush of ice heaves crystals through
the geometry of the soil, or feathers its way
across the windows of cars on every street,
its signature written on a contract, now honoured.
first published in Young Ravens Literary Review, issue 5, 2016