From one angle
it looked
like the head
of a man.
I climbed up.
The grit slashed
the pale skin
on my knuckles.
I held on-
to the nose-bridge,
pressed down
onto the cheekbone,
rested my hands
on the forehead,
looked at the sky
reflected in the rain-
-pool worn
into the rough pate
of the stone.
I rested there,
a temporary statue,
relishing the touch
of a dark moon,
newly inhabited.
.
Dominic Rivron
.
Thanks Dominic, it’s a lovely poem ( and image). Glad you won the prize! I remember the IT, still have a copy of an issue somewhere.
Comment by Natalie on 14 October, 2023 at 5:17 pmAce!
Comment by john soltys on 15 March, 2024 at 9:55 pm