Gathering From the gable’s edge light falls where houses meet, boundaries accented, enhancing the separateness of being, I watch the kites fling, mew, exotic and carrion. they call them plague birds, pickers of bones, deconstructing flesh from form, nature’s necessary sweeper up of death, word has it we will find a different mode at the back end of the year, waiting in solitary quarters, time murmurs as we turn it in our minds, our child released, living the days safe as houses from the inside, gauntly, man in the distance waiting, the spring collector of tithes, green eyed and strangely silent, picking and pocketing, I turn, observe the manner of his gait and purpose, mark, retract my gaze, reflect behind the glass on my side
Echo A swimmer dives from the rocks into a blue pool, fearless, splits the glass, pushing into cobalt silence, gasps back turns, disappears, an anecdote of the past, evocative and fleeting, lived, noise happens somewhere outside, they cry from their eyrie, at me, warning of the new
Jenny is a published writer of poetry and prose at present working on short fiction. She also makes abstract ceramics. 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. She is a nominee for the push cart prize and best on the net for poetry.
Grand Little Things 