Poetry from Lucy Crispin


Across the wan November sky
a lone heron is ferrying
the slack bag of his body, slung
beneath the neat-tucked neck. Not high

nor hurriedly he goes, but slow,
under a dough of cloud thin-stretched
and risen over fields; he’s fetched
from here to there by something known

in arrow-beak, and steady wings,
and sinew. Wide, diffused, the light
slants like a skimmed stone, and the night
sits, ready, inside day. Air brings,

all leaf-rot-rich, the smell of rest:
though not yet fierce with coming cold
it’s promise-pricked, and says What’s old
may be surrendered, and what’s next

will come. Inside me, something yields
and drops its gold, like leaves released.
The far crows caw in bared, black trees,
and tupped sheep wait in ochre fields.


Like a soft, high chord on a piano
or a pianissimo shimmer of strings

a white chiffon mist has been shaken out
across the valley and hangs there

oblivious to the coming hours
which are being forged

in the astonishing molten orange sky
behind the eastern hills. That held-breath

moment, the parabola’s high point:
the unbearable beauty of beginnings

and your heart’s prayer for exemption,
that you might stay here and never drop

out of those incandescent crucible heavens
into the merely blue.

About Lucy Crispin as SC Poet Laureate

If you enjoyed this work by Lucy Crispin then you should also read Mary Buchinger

As well as being a poet, Lucy Crispin is a person-centred counsellor and facilitator

About the contributor

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