Dry Bones

DRY BONES




there’s no word coming to me
nothing distinctive on the rise
 
I feel I have nothing left to say
as if the inchoate is locked in bone


a frozen marrow wilderness
waiting for life to happenstance


yet there’s confidence
water will again flow from stone


the yellowing horse-chestnut tree
the leafless ash with red berries


tar-spotted sycamore leaves
montbretia October-ing through


brilliant fuchsia fuelled and felled
ivy stealing light and water


holly admiring its own green shine
crisp curled copper colours rustling the road


               looking at the out there
               brings me back every time

About the contributor

James Finnegan - shortlisted for Hennessy Literary Award (2018), highly commended in the Patrick Kavanagh Poetry Competition (2016, 2018), published in New Hibernia Review (2019), Poetry Ireland Review (2018), CYPHERS (2017,2018, 2019), Skylight 47, North West Words, and The Best New British & Irish Poets 2018 - first full collection of poems Half-Open Door (Eyewear Publishing, 2018).

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