Dew
by and published in Edition Four of Pomegranate
Blossom cobweb caught,
Supine sun rise
realisation dawned:
We found it in plastic cartons, toy die-cast cars, the lightning behind the light switch and counting our breaths between the husk salt stench of December and piquant May…
Those sable November boughs
Against cotton white sheets
When the washing line was snapped
by a stumbling breeze-
That cymbal sprite
Clattered this fog away:
Away from the frown clipped smiles, the elbow crease, the gaps between ribs, the hollows behind knees- all clear night and a comical Orion tumbles through the stars…
The path to the house is a stave.
Rightly arranged
For the stutter at the line
Whose father’s spine you wished not to break,
And past the door,
This prologue among
Ripe pears and miramba grass:
The dew sucked from fingers- the taste
Is of clouds, is of iron,
Is of empty blissful space.
James Coghill
James Coghill has so far managed to come runner up twice in the FYP of the year award (he really does it just for the weird food). Other than poetry, he enjoys wearing top hats and doing Judo (although not all at the same time).