Matt Merritt: A poem

Song

For this morning I am resolved
to live more like a bird,
with my chest puffed out
as blazon of my great good fortune
or protection from the cold.

I will turn an eye to the open sky,
entrust my obvious blind spots
to the protection of instinct,
refuse to admit the existence
of anything but the present.

I will take flight only
in the face of the direst threat,
fling my song upon
the dull embers of dawn
to burn with just one story,

that reports of my demise
have been greatly exaggerated.

Jo Dixon: Two poems

Nature Reserve

Asphalt smoothway hastens hybrid cycles

   and monoscoped twitchers                                       

past a dry brood of wellies                                              

   feathered in mud-splashed memories

Jo Dixon

Spring

(After Barbara Hepworth)

Bronze egg hatched with twine

outweighs panting arms edging

her out; she tilts on the tail lift.                                             

Salt rivulets perspire

down her silken shell until -                                                     

flanked by armoured glass,

she exhibits in white space.

But when Spring is lacy

with sunlight leaves,

fingertips reach to meet round

her back, feet follow her curved

breath and in the criss-cross

veins of her yolk eyes conceive                                                

                                                                                               

amorous plume-stretches of teals,

the branchwork of foraging goldcrests,

and a marriage of grey herons spired

in their nest.

Jo Dixon