March Poems

March Morning

Out of winter, grief-dusted and new sun,
March morning tears hyacinths from the sky.
I rise, bright-boned and rotted bud,
sick of myself, of love, of blood. I rub
red writing onto my skin.        I am not dead
just numb and a fist, a balcony’s edge
where the bride waves thin,
all sugar and shut-off shadows.

Throats Full of Graves


From ‘Throats Full of Graves’ (Lapwing Publications, 2013)

March, Revisited

Lifted, listen to the stains of the birds
their eyes oil, their flight a flowered rain.

No sun stammers above the cloud. No sun
cleans the tide, wraps the dead.          Bloodless/

the stalks of spring wait to be flames.
Their sappy blades are madness. Only sorrow

sees them, alone as a tied dog waiting
for a yellow bone, a heavy ink
to give it a name.

I cannot move.          This is my rain perhaps/
my pulse the waves of the firth,
the gulls fishing for graves.


A Wound's Sound

From ‘A Wound’s Sound’ (Oneiros Books, 2014)



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