Nocturne
It isn’t a gull I need to hear
this time of night.
It isn’t the scissoring
of crisp air into shreds
of sound.
What I need is rock
under my feet,
the careful calculation
of one step after another,
the threat of a twisted ankle
keeping me steady, steady,
the catch in my chest
reminding me
of the bird in my throat
refusing to be swallowed
or spit out whole.
One more stair
and I will be there.
Framing blue the white gull’s shriek,
this window is carved in stone.
I cannot slam it shut.
From Absent Muses
[…] inhabit people like a secret amour. When I returned from that first journey away I was sleepless. ‘Nocturne’, I wrote. I mourned place, person, animal, thing. The sounds of the port recede. There is nothing […]
by Nineteenth of May « A Hundred and One Days May 26, 2012 at 9:00 am