I am wet weekend, blown clean by rain.
I’m broad table
untidy with others’ magazines.
I am ska-beat, singing love.
I’m the poisoned roots
of a monkshood petal.
Scythe-winged, I am swift. I am nightfall.
viii.2014
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This emerged from a simple workshop exercise. Almost a throwaway - I'd prefer to be removing myself from being so much at the centre of my writing.
ReplyDeleteYet I liked the raw version enough to apply a little spit & polish of craft; what the end result tells the reader about me is for them to imagine and me to guess.