by Christian Ward
The sky's punctured lung
releases its grey. A row
of sinew-thin trees sheds
yellow leaves bright as brimstone
moths to combat the sky
borrowed from a Victorian malaise,
a year of choking. Walking
back from the doctor's office,
I carry this light with me
to help me through the prognosis,
navigate streets unraveling
like my bones.
The Countryside in My Street
The spine of your notebook broke,
scattering the countryside
around the central London street:
A leaf curled like a hibernating harvest
mouse. The trill song of a wood
warbler in a silver birch. A red fox
caught in the second look of a cat.
Badger reflections in a puddle.
You, lost in the margin, unable
to escape bats screeching nets,
owls adjusting their binocular eyes.
Christian Ward is a UK based poet who can be currently found in Wild Greens, Cold Moon Review, Discretionary Love and Chantarelle's Notebook. Future poems will be appearing in Spry, Dreich and Uppagus.