Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

Lavender lingers on the threshold like a delayed mourner,
blocking the entrance to a past heavy with rot. Migrating
birds report no news but shrill comments about foul air
while filling cracks in their nests where the roof used to be.

In the entrance hall the forest has covered the ground, branching
into the nursery while rain draws thick curtains on either side
of the open window. Sound of rain fills the spaces between
stones like muffled gossip, each drop mentions my full name.

Squirrels, red with embarrassment, hid in kitchen cupboards.
In blue rimmed tin plates gravel mixes with moss and mould,
a soup which moves slowly towards what everything is heading for.
Roof and owner have become permanent tourists leaving the house

like an open grave. A single sock and an unopened letter
balance on a shabby armchair while nettles bloom in the fireplace.
Their touch blisters and burns wild as buried passion. I should
remember why no wind or rain can put out these green flames.

Frost will set them back but frost takes its time. (By then I will
remember.) Ivy rushes over stained plaster heading in no specified
direction, towards something which is at home beyond the cloud
tiled sky. As I witness numerous wood lice waiting for a landlord

(but frankly any lord would do) sleep falls into me as if I had applied
to lodge in limbo. In a damp, moon lit room, walls seem as thin
as skin behind which everything happens. I find my body is neither here
nor there, heading towards nothing. Only the North Star shares my secret.