It is dead air, choked with dust and sweat and
the metal tones of spent exhaust.
Each second drags a cloying weight in the
wrong and sudden stillness of the day,
wherein thrush and sparrow quieten, and
cats are safely absent.
We labour on each breath, and feel an ancient ache,
and blood rings loudly in the ear as the jet roar fades to mute.
And when the sky is dressed by hidden hands,
a drape of pink-washed greys that trick the eye and fool the hour,
we urge that glorious dread spark to rend and burn,
to thrill and terrify upon Creation's banging drum,
and place the kiss of spill and soak
on a cracked earth's crumbled wealth.
YOU ARE READING
Fragments And Reflections
PoetryPoems looking at everything and anything not in my other collections. Here you'll find life and time, wild oceans and lonely coast paths, busy streets and empty hotel rooms, wild concerts and late night writing. All just fragments and reflections, l...
