Thursday, 24 November 2016

A poem by Colin Crewdson

Sprites


Prompts, night flares:
      
Last night you were blond,
      
bobbed.  You had a small sharp nose.
You left for Paris.

Before:
       
You walked like a farmer,
       
solid, mistrustful,
your mind on the technicalities of minutes. 

In the darkest night of grief
you carried off the last light, a thief
softly unbodying herself.
 

And then:
               
You leant over
               
created a bridge over the years
       
        with whisps of golden hair.
Should I feel grateful?

Photogenesis:
                
neurones briefly flash,
                 
noctilucent,
                 
as your torch beam
swings by in the dark, randomly. 






Colin Crewdson lives in Devon where he works as an osteopath, after a career in other european and middle-eastern countries. He's been published in Ink Sweat & Tears, The High Window, The Open Mouse and The Journal.

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