Poems - Issue 4
A lonely man whose friend is the horizon
goes where his view turns hawkish. The shadows
make obelisks this evening. He needs to escape
from huge stories, those of babies and skeletons,
of gunfire and banks overflowing. To believe
not all that matters is the outline of a mind
between strangers’ hands. The first men
came from dunes of grass, they ploughed pyramids
through the earth, sowed blue lakes of poppies.
Now, where tyres have printed chevrons in dirt,
he tries. He tries, but there is no wilderness.
Only hedge maple and the dint of gates;
the roofs across the stones; the stones.
Gram Joel Davies