poem

August Poem

August, Departing

Here’s the stain,
heaved out
and an orchard of clouds
sleeping. The crows flee
warm fugitives
on August’s blunt edge. I see
a distant coldness,
the skirt of the sun shirking.
The tide is loud with the drowned
and the windy chains of gulls.
The air smells of salty bone
and the womb forgetting.
By the rotting light I breathe,
counting the pretty darknesses.

Throats Full of Graves

Throats Full of Graves

From ‘Throats Full of Graves’. First Published at ‘Ink, Sweat and Tears’.

I have one signed copy available. If interested please email me gillianprew@btinternet.com

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