my small tin heart
mimics a windmill
the black gauze is held tight
over everything dislocated, holding it
still so it doesn’t
sting and the stars come galloping over
great metal hills, the colour of aubergines when
compared to oranges
as if running late for dinner you
island on the page you I’m swimming fast
as I can
lowering now
into a plastic chair, throwing the night anchor
down, lighting
up
and the cutlery, and all that fish soup
morning fog rolls in
over leathery hills, you move your
hat from one
knee to the other, you’ve spent so long
waiting in the
basement to surprise someone for their
birthday, they have been dead ten years you
know that don’t you, it’s just
like putting oars in the water
realising you forgot the boat
.
Blossom Hibbert
.