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 ...

...

To read the rest of this article Login

or purchase a Digital Subscription