Tuesday, 11 December 2012


This poem first appeared in issue 26 of 'Urthona' magazine http://urthona.com/

I left my name at the wood's edge
and entered its tree-green shade a stranger to myself.

I found a clearing, a quiet space
and in this peaceful glade
bound together branches with vines.

I sit beneath this weave of hazel and breath.

Behind my eyes I find my heart - a bruised apple.
I hold it gently in my mind.

Occasionally a black dog rises up and barks a memory at me.
I play fetch with the ruined fruit.

Always the beast gives chase and always brings back
not the over-ripe taste of rot
but a cracked, white eggshell.

I place this empty casing in the cradle of my ribs.

And here, almost imperceptibly, it pulses and throbs,
pulses and throbs.

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