POETRY GALLERY
JanuaryMy life-long friend my crazy goat has stirred and climbed once more to the top of the chart. Here, two-faced we glance at the dull gleam of triumph and horrors best forgotten. Here too, peer into the abyss of what lies ahead and up to the heavens for answers in the stars. John Irving Clarke Christmas Morning, Two a.m. |
In the soft and silent darkness
A shadow shimmers its silhouette.
Awake, I do not stir
But locate the shapes:
Wardrobe, drawers and chair
That speak to me of home.
It’s early, I know,
Still a time for sleep,
But childhood remonstrations
Return with comic force
He doesn’t visit boys who aren’t asleep.
And Only if you’re very good.
Faint breathings, creaks and turning overs
A few hours before
This house will come to life
And like snow falling from the eaves
I breathe a sigh
For the ghost of Christmas past.
In the soft and silent darkness
A shadow shimmers its silhouette.
Awake, I do not stir
But locate the shapes:
Wardrobe, drawers and chair
That speak to me of home.
It’s early, I know,
Still a time for sleep,
But childhood remonstrations
Return with comic force
He doesn’t visit boys who aren’t asleep.
And Only if you’re very good.
Faint breathings, creaks and turning overs
A few hours before
This house will come to life
And like snow falling from the eaves
I breathe a sigh
For the ghost of Christmas past.
Solstice
Winter afternoon
tree silhouettes
exposed
against stone-washed skies
their bronchiole black fringe
catching pink breath.
John Irving Clarke
