Last view of the island

Islands

Last view of the island

 

The ferry banks, only five minutes out

beyond the stone corral of harbour wall

and into the channel, the broad crescent

of its wake painting plumes across the

glass of the ocean, engines humming a

rhythmless vibrato. Smoke funnels skywards.

Cars hunch like crated eggs on the lower deck.

Over the tannoy, our cheery captain announces

a bottlenose pod, surfing in the bow-waves.

My eyes lock over the stern, watching as

those grey mountains begin to melt on

the horizon, taking a lifetime to disappear.

 

 

first published in Red River Review, 2018

 

Advertisements

Hinterland

Hinterland

Hinterland

 

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

An apology to Andrew Ford

An apology


An apology to Andrew Ford

 

As things stand, he is the bole of this unsteady tree,

the backmost reaching into the frail chain of records,

through the sporadic diggings of our research, and

 

I picture him taking the days of journey north from Devon,

by the old Roman road, possibly driving one of the carts

or wains he’d made, loaded with what could not be left,

 

bound for a place he’d only heard of, yet believed held

all the answers. This place, that kicked the light out of me

from the moment I could stand. Then every moment after.

 

The one I couldn’t wait to flee. Now the insistent hands of

autumn tear at the leaves, and the bough is close to breaking,

I have no way to tell him what I’ve failed to do, how sorry I am.

 

first published in Forage, 2017