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Image by Annie Spratt
It is that time that comes
softly, slowly, like a feral scent
into the breeze, the forest wedded white.
It is that time of night
when the caul of leaves fall, merge and blur
into that mushroom bloom of bliss.
It is that time of frosted promises
fracture with whispers, it is that time
when roots cling with misted breath.
For when the theatre of silhouettes
are seeking warmth,
it is that time
I have this sense of you.
My adjustment order connects
with rainforest palaver. The tiger
within me grins.
I claw a spider, purr at
the crackle cackle of heatwave life,
frying flesh spitting.
My comfort is licking
a scorched paw, but those rashers
on the plate…
and that jam jar fruit of ghosts
to smother burnt toast. The bee
within me hums.
I buzz in a chipped china cup
of apple brew. The ant mutters
now is the time to glue.
But last night there slept a blouse
on the frosted whirligig,
one slug pegged. A clue?
So much fug. The season insists.
Clickity-clack cul de sac.
The summer bulb, flickering.
I snarl. Proper, paper tiger snarl.
a liqueur discarded
on a bedsit floor
where her novel lies
stained and dog-eared
while with soft sound
a tabby sleeps, purrs dreams
as candlelight braids
in a glass emptying until
slender fingers peel
the mind’s rind curls and glides
fields to fringed horizons
where combed-back rowan play
an allegro of tears
as if as one they bled.
Phil Wood was born and lives in Wales. He studied English Literature at Aberystwyth University. He has worked in statistics, education, shipping, and a biscuit factory. He enjoys watercolour painting and chess. His writing can be found in various publications, including: Ink Sweat and Tears, The Dirigible Balloon; and forthcoming in Noon Journal of the Short Poem.