Phoebe Power - Bulge
by and published in Edition Twelve of Pomegranate
It’s 2pm in the chicken field.
Migraine sky.
The fudged mud
hoof-turned in the turf.
I climb spider fences
lifting my duffle coat from the barbs.
In winter we go sledging here.
A meadowy paddock
where wild flowers are grown
on purpose and a path is mown.
The sky is ice
pressed to a temple.
A red hot air balloon leers
and I dash like paint
to the garden behind
full of poplars
the red car
confronts me, its round black lights are
the gaps in an old man’s gums
but it licks away and I faint
back up the hill, my insides
still threshing
fear of cows, cars and balloons
and up in the chicken field
the air is still
white and still.
Phoebe Power
Phoebe Power was a Foyle Young Poet of the Year in 2009, and has poems forthcoming in ‘The Cadaverine’. She lives near the Lake District in Cumbria and hopes to study English at university next year.