To Peter, for I cannot say dear
by and published in Edition Eight of Pomegranate
He is still walking on that path, I see him.
Neck broken, a column shattered. His bones twist, tendons twining and snapping,
Frayed under the pressure of the sky. Those eyes, blue toy marbles rolling across a
Smooth floor, clink, then shoved into another child’s hands.
The prize.
Hands dislocate, curved joints crack, split,
fissures opening like a flower.
I suck the marrow, choking on its sweetness.
His legs tilt oddly, jingling change in his pockets like an overgrown school boy,
Uniform fading. The briars and thorns snatch at his clothes, sinners
Clutching a saint. His shadow makes a crooked cross.
Above, a bird turns it to a clue, a coded network of dash-dash-dash.
The town beyond is melting in the heat, dissolving
a memory gone hazy with too many towns.
He turns to look.
I am hanging in the wind-coarse trees, grasping branches
Hoping to save some shred, some final gasp, a death-rattle…
I could remove it, stitch by stitch, and weave it back, altered,
twisted, the colours muted and him walking
Rowan Dent
Rowan Dent is a 17 year old English student, who has loved from words from the moment go. She loves photography, and has been an avid reader and writer of poetry since she was 11. Her favourite poets include Sylvia Plath, Rumi, Ted Hughes, Alan Ginsberg, and she has studied Pope’s ‘Rape of the Lock’ in close detail. Aside from being a voracious consumer of literature, Rowan adores music and theatre.