AIR IN THE MORNING
AIR IN THE MORNING
The morning air speaks loss;
slides through a sunlit moment
as eyes open to her memory.
From across damp fields
shrill hammering signals
a disconsolate world
where trees stand huddled
under saturated clouds.
Sharp black wings
tear the sky with flight;
a feathered firework erupting
until the air would burst
from its heaviness.
Nothing but this pale grey
absence - a solitary man
watches the shining phrases
of rain on the river.
Published in Black Market Re-view, Issue 4, September 2017
john short
Wed 9th May 2018 13:28
Hi Frances,
Wow thanks for the nice comments. Glad you liked it. It's been a troublesome poem, not the easiest and needed a ton of sporadic tinkering.