Morning hangs like a tapestry of soft violence;
everything sewn so slightly wounded. Love,
under her assortment of onslaughts, bathes
in the light, in the shade of the gossamer-hung hedge,
in the heat of my lap; an echo of evanescence. The gull that visits
– how familiar his white eye,
intangible as weak silence, dignified as marble.
Each day, the launch of hegira;
fleeing the memory of amber summers
that suffocate from the sullen touch of birth.
Childishness lies in the hands,
in the vulnerability of protruding veins, as if desire
could hold them flat and they could smell of rosewater.
I have drowned my fury in salt water.
But I do not strive to adjust the sea
– it all comes,
thin as waning consciousness,
delinquent as youth raw with life,
like the aura of poets who endure
by having things to say. They rhapsodize
beyond the grave, and I unable
to speak for all the wrong words
tearing me down.
Currently living in Argyll, Scotland with her partner, two children and a cat, Gillian Prew ditched philosophy in favour of poetry even though the former still haunts her. She has three collections of poems and has been published at Full of Crow, Gutter Eloquence, Gloom Cupboard, Fragile Arts Quarterly, ‘ditch’, and The Glasgow Review among others. She has also been a ‘Featured Artist’ at Counterexample Poetics. You can follow her blog at http://gillianprew.blogspot.com/