Honey The edges of ordinary things hammer Icarus wings against the light. Tired, older than I’ve ever known how to be, I try to save from leaking jars stored in unsuitable places what should have sweetened a pharaoh’s tomb – its colour deepening in the greedy dark until some jemmy iron’s raid or precise scientific blade cut into black old time, and from that ancient’s wounded blessing, oozed this deathless, golden need.
Drive What if I told you the busy road outside my house spoke its traffic suddenly: ran from the beginning of their journey to the span of hopes each driver told, without an inch of motion? Became an endless sentence flow: worded cars, truck shout, motorbikes’ long inflection? And, huddled before the altar’s ceaseless roar, unmoving folk, knees bent in rows an awkward foot above the tar, surprised at how similar their attitudes, how driven every prayer?
Craig’s had poems published in The London Magazine, Poetry Ireland Review, The Rialto, North, The Literary Hatchet, Stand, Magma, Poetry Salzburg Review, Poetry Daily, THINK, The Rat’s Ass Review and The Dark Horse.
Grand Little Things 