Two Poems
by Christian Ward

Thursday Blues

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.


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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. 


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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.