The Black Tree
At the end of my climb
I stumble on an amber pond,
all milky greens and gold.
The view beyond is washed in pale blue,
as if a child has toppled
his jar of water.
Suddenly something darker stirs,
just creasing the surface,
exciting the birds.
I sense some threat,
take in a knot of angry
black trees muttering.
And then I see a sad one,
standing alone,
all fingers and space.
It’s holding its frozen pose,
facing one way,
the way the wind has made it.
And I see me: bleak, brittle,
almost ridiculous,
and mauve with loneliness.
Charlotte Gann has had poems in The South magazine, First Time, Poetry Monthly and iddie. She won a competition run by The South for a draft collection, and second prize in the 2008 Writers Bureau competition. She is currently doing an MA at Sussex University.
Page(s) 26
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