Two Poems By Jenny Dunbar

Moon Woolf

Red light at three a.m. blinks across the bedroom chair 
awake, I feel the pulse in its narrow glare
a faint insistent scrape
between the boundary of me and it,
the door downstairs,
a lover’s ghost, long banished 
set loose,
he may be out on the prowl, that moon hound,
opportunist picker up of the left out
in the cold,
niched in a stone gap
caught in the waning beam 
of a silver gloved moon  
and its howl,
lurching at a canter
outrunning the fire
as patchy light breaks
on the next shore,
red light blinking

end of autumn cuts
each leaf falling at its point
the wind’s edge curling 
counting, pulling each long hour 
since we left those clement skies,
the long deepest death 
winter’s drum, rolling, broken
heart stopped in a gasp, 
consequence of a grief owned

Jenny is a published writer of poetry and prose at present working on short fiction and prose poetry. Graduating from the Royal central School in London some years ago, she followed a career in the performing arts and has walked in many worlds. The juxtaposition of life in all its cadences continues to inspire her, especially so at this stranger than strange time.

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