Pablo
Kate Noakes reading Pablo 753.2 KB
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Sand-scuffed to their metal tips, my boots
are scarred and scoured into eroded rock;
pale, reddish and smooth, save small black
patches of original patina; hot and heavy
in my hands as I pack for home.
Soon I will breathe the dustless air, oil-scented
by wild mint, rosemary and thyme. In the
valley of lime every stone speaks and the roots
of oleanders stop the river’s song for
newly-arrived nightingales to perform.
There only the cork oaks are wounded
and every decade they heal.
poetrymagazines' note: recorded at Southbank Centre on 9th December 2006.
Page(s) 50
magazine list
- Features
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- Acumen
- Agenda
- Ambit
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- Cannon's Mouth, The
- Chroma
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- Dream Catcher
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- Fire
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- French Literary Review, The
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- Global Tapestry
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- Interpreter's House, The
- Iota
- Journal, The
- Lamport Court
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- Magma
- Matchbox
- Matter
- Modern Poetry in Translation
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- North, The
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- Paper, The
- Pen Pusher Magazine
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- Poetry London (1951)
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- Poetry Salzburg Review
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- Private Tutor
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- 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