Poem of the day

Stroud leapyear blues 1992

by Dennis Gould

27 February

Scafell Pike

by Ra Page

He's in his element, finding his stride

for every two of hers, beating the boot-worn

path to England's roof. She gave her word

to go along this once, to climb her mountain,

but hardly warms to the "hard pulse of walking",

the pace with which they poach their bird's eye view.

Surely this unexpected tarn will win

the town girl round, this startled blink of blue

from sleeping green. Surely she'll love heath.

But she's short sighted, short legged, short of breath

and when at dusk they round the clouded peak

his heart drops. Her empty gaze brings back

that reason she once gave for falling for

and still obliging him. Because he's there.

 

26 February

Sounding the hull

by Lisa Matthews

I wanted a red hand, a pasting of sunset

over my becoming. There was a rain storm

and I felt the water heave beneath the boat.

 

If I had asked anything of you, I am sure

it would have been given. But this one thing,

it seems, is beyond you now, as it was back then.

 

I listened as the carpenter sounded the hull,

mindful of tiny imperfections in the grain:

a swollen tongue; a bitter sand-stained groove.

 

Homeward eyes said nothing new, as if all we

were was each other. I waited in a chair

in the corner. Come, tell me a tall tale.

 

25 February

The book of thought-clouds

by Alec Finlay

24 February

Altar

by Steve Jonas

She sits that

       morning star upon my

lowest window pane proud

as would any Venus

The birds, meanwhile,

       are making busy with

their chirps of

                     hosannas

such consideration for the

on-coming light.

 

23 February

Blue Moon

by Linda France

Our eyes are drawn to the blue horizon,

the shimmering dot of the evening star.

 

We lose ourselves in the dance

of the moon, the darkening sky, the stray cat,

 

the pipistrelle whispering its winging,

the slugs who slither to lick our toes.

 

And the whole world is indigo.

I don't know how close you are, how far.

 

Our sadness chases us across the threshold

and there's nothing else to do but slip

 

between cotton and lose ourselves again

in the smoke of the blown candle. Your hands,

 

like no-one else's, the ring around the blue

of your eyes lift all the sighs out of me -

 

like the memory of something beautiful:

the moon, how close you are, how far.

 

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