2 poems by Becky Kingsnorth


She sits on the passenger side

watching herself in the visor.

The dusk became an orange night

some time ago. Lamp posts guard

the world beyond this road.

Lights scan her face.

She is here    and here    and here

Then, an unlit stretch gifts a silhouette

of the land and she rides the outline

of flat black hills and trees until

a square of gold stops her eye

and is gone. Still    she gives it life,

builds the room, the home. Places

a seat, a lamp. Hears a dog scratch

across kitchen tiles, a thump

of music from upstairs, the hum

of the motorway.

She is here    and here    and here


She was there in those days after. That April

when I sat wrapped against the weather, glaring

at the swelling leaf buds, daring spring to come.

Her flight path above me. Solitary, following

the line, between wetland and Hollow Pond.

Once, when the traffic around me locked

into a moving grid, snaking together around the Circular,

she flew, low, across the steady stream,

her great slow arcs of wing buoyed by the air pushed up

by the convoy, peering neck gulped back for flight.

Now, as I stand on Forest Road, she turns above me.

The suck of each passing car giving rhythm

to the beating of her wings, she spirals ever higher,

catching my long calling ribbon of breath, she pulls me

to my tip toes, and the ground falls away.

About the contributor

Becky Kingsnorth is London-based, and a member of Forest Poets. Previously published in the Shot Glass Journal with Muse-Pie Press, she writes mostly on the Underground on the way to work.

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