Thursday, 27 October 2016

A poem by Helen Kay


She swims into herself,
to see the tadpoles darting.

They tease her scarred attention
to the lie of space before her.

Tail whip to free fall. Blink.
Pupils close in to catch them

in a vitreous underworld
of flaking retinal spawn.

Experts gaze in crystal balls,
and predict the changes

of moons she cannot reach.
She foresees latex fingers

fishing out crescent larvae
before eyes spew out toads.

Helen is a dyslexia tutor and proud owner of five hens who inspired her debut pamphlet, A Poultry Lovers' Guide to Poetry published by Indigo Dreams in 2015.

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