Monday, 2 July 2018

A poem by Holly Magill

The zombie apocalypse almost reaches the playnies*


They’re here, a pack of half-formed things jostling
where the Gele bumbles under the footbridge.

Scabby knees and not-quite-hormones-yet,
growth spurt wrists and ankles poke
fists and feet farther out of joggers and tops;
bored little bodies scuffling and hyper.

They zag and weave round dogs and walkers,
uncowed by other species on their patch;
barely two pop-belches from feral,
their gums cling to last bites of milk teeth.

Teachers, parents, would say it’s just a game.
The minds not quite controlling these mutating
creatures know change is possible,
even for The Undead.
One kid bombs the riverbed, screaming:

I’m not a zombie anymore!




*The Playnies - slang for playing fields.











Holly Magill’s poetry has appeared in various magazines, including The Interpreter’s House and Bare Fiction, and anthologies –Stairs and Whispers: D/deaf and Disabled Poets Write Back (Nine Arches Press) and #MeToo: A Women’s Poetry Anthology (Fair Acre Press). She co-edits Atrium – www.atriumpoetry.com. Her first pamphlet is forthcoming in 2018 from Indigo Dreams Publishing.

1 comment:

  1. Wonderful poem (from the mother of a zombie)

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