And the Years like Crows
The day my grandmother died
I cleaned the empty room.
The day my mother died
I closed the empty house.
The day my child died
I walked out
empty.
And the years like crows
scream from the treetops;
black
feathers
cross each narrow bed - year
after year arrives
slippery with blood.
Without the clan,
the mob, the human
jungle
we have no mind,
no voice,
no shape. This
I remember
as I fly through the dark
my pale skin oozing
panic.
Where can I go?
Who can I love
now?
And the years like crows
scratch white-paper sky -
lines, letters,
a word
read long ago.
Loss.
And I survive to watch
the world run down
with all the time
in the world
to mourn
(hours, days, weeks)
and too many dead.
Page(s) 52-53
magazine list
- Features
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- Agenda
- Ambit
- Angel Exhaust
- ARTEMISpoetry
- Atlas
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- Candelabrum
- Cannon's Mouth, The
- Chroma
- Coffee House, The
- Dream Catcher
- Equinox
- Erbacce
- Fabric
- Fire
- Floating Bear, The
- French Literary Review, The
- Frogmore Papers, The
- Global Tapestry
- Grosseteste Review
- Homeless Diamonds
- Interpreter's House, The
- Iota
- Journal, The
- Lamport Court
- London Magazine, The
- Magma
- Matchbox
- Matter
- Modern Poetry in Translation
- Monkey Kettle
- Moodswing
- Neon Highway
- New Welsh Review
- North, The
- Oasis
- Obsessed with pipework
- Orbis
- Oxford Poetry
- Painted, spoken
- Paper, The
- Pen Pusher Magazine
- Poetry Cornwall
- Poetry London
- Poetry London (1951)
- Poetry Nation
- Poetry Review, The
- Poetry Salzburg Review
- Poetry Scotland
- Poetry Wales
- Private Tutor
- Purple Patch
- Quarto
- Rain Dog
- Reach Poetry
- Review, The
- Rialto, The
- Second Aeon
- Seventh Quarry, The
- Shearsman
- Smiths Knoll
- Smoke
- South
- Staple
- Strange Faeces
- Tabla Book of New Verse, The
- Thumbscrew
- Tolling Elves
- Ugly Tree, The
- Weyfarers
- Wolf, The
- Yellow Crane, The