2 new poems by Chris Hardy

4

NUMBER ONE

 

She wore a flowered dress

and the Autumn sun

came through the glass

so light chalk dust

was a mist between me,

the window and the path

to the churchyard where

in a flint wall

coins were left

for me to find.

 

Was it the first day?

We copied numbers

from the board.

2 was a shape

I could not draw.

She wrote it for me

in my book.

I copied 1 down easily

and later saw

that 1 was also I.

 

In the picture of the class

we are looking at the lens

which looks straight back

as it buries us alive.

 

 

THUNDERSTONE

I walk through galleries of armour,

coins, blue Roman glass,

pay my respects to the marble limbs

of shy, deceiving Artemis,

to where what I have come for hang

locked and bound in cabinets.

 

 

A buried scree of dragons’ teeth,

not rare but hard to find,

as old as the moon, much older than

the pearl the moon resembles but

the moon is not a pearl

and this is not a stone,

picked up and pressed

into my life line’s socket.

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