A poem for Poetry Month by Simon Smith
Here, on the estuary’s forgotten shore,
away from the road’s tarmac gravity,
the dark begins to pool early against
high boulder banks and the dune’s downslope.
Another swarm of dreams is scattering south.
With a luthier’s ear for resonance
and absences, the river channels out
its own meandering chamber-course.
Snow stillness; snow silence. And yet no snow:
“Too cold for it”. Deep cold, more than enough
to snuff the stars into a charred blackness
and scorch this great dark bore hole to the moon.
Everything is drawn of its ghosts
and now the frost begins to populate
this void, creeping from every crack and crevice,
extrapolating brittle feathered forms
so exact
humerus to radius
so intricate
radius to ulna;
each shiny new angle geared for flight
yet still grounded come first light of morning.
This poem is reproduced with permission from Waiting for a Hunter’s Moon by Simon Smith published by Cambria Publishing and available to buy HERE
